Introduction to Our World

When my son Connor was born, I did not meet him until twelve hours later. My husband, my mother, and even our friends saw him before I did. He was born by emergency Caesarian, and on my first brief glance of him, he was purple. Very purple. Doctors rushed him to the NICU which is where I first held my baby's tiny hand. (He was tiny by my standards, but at 9 lbs, 13 oz's, he was a giant in the NICU) We were told he had Primary Pulmonary Hypertension of the Newborn-basically, he was not breathing the way he needed to and for four days, we did not know if our first-born would ever sleep in the nursery we had lovingly prepared for him. Fortunately, after a week in the NICU, our prayers were answered and our baby boy came home.

He was beautiful and had a cute little smile and I knew he was going to be the smartest boy ever. I held him and touched him and talked to him and sang to him, everything I could to let him know Mommy was there and always would be. As Connor became more active, people would tell me "he is such a serious baby." I thought that was stupid; he was handsome and smart and healthy, and I did not care how serious he was because I had been allowed to keep him and he was perfect.

By the time he was fourteen months old, he began having massive tantrums. His face would turn red and he would scream and he wouldn't allow me to touch him or try to make it better. I even took him to the doctor once because I was certain he was in pain. Of course he had relaxed by the time we got to the pediatrician and so she found nothing wrong. I was told I was a new mother, I had never been around boys, and I needed to read a book about how to parent. My mother said Connor was just advanced, hitting the Terrible Two's early. My husband said I was not assertive enough with him and I needed to be a better disciplinarian. I would get so frustrated, I would hold his bedroom door closed for a few minutes just so I take a few breaths without him kicking and screaming at me. Needless to say, I began to feel like a terrible mother.

By the time Connor was four, we found a therapist who understood him. When Connor began chasing me around the house with a kitchen knife he grabbed from the dishwasher before I did, and when he tried to throw over his sister's high chair with her in it during one of his fits, we saw a psychiatrist about medicating him. She conservatively prescribed him Risperdal and it made an enormous difference. My husband started to believe me that there was more going on, but no therapist, psychiatrist, or pediatrician could tell us exactly what. When he entered school we were told he was a behavior problem. I said the preschool work was boring him and the teacher said she knew gifted children and mine was not one-he had a discipline problem. That was in Arizona. That summer after kindergarten, we packed up and moved to Nashville, Tennessee to be closer to family and get into a better school system.

Over the next four years Connor saw three different therapists. By the time he was nine years old, he had been diagnosed with ADHD and bipolar disorder and been placed on four other medications. A month on those meds and I had had it. I pulled him off the medicines cold turkey, because as much as he screamed off of them, he was worse on them, and honestly, no nine year old should be on four medications without a definitive diagnosis. Fourth grade was a nightmare. Connor had a great deal of anxiety, complained he had no friends, that nobody liked him, and that he didn't want to be in this world anymore. His teacher did not understand. Connor was always in trouble in school for talking out of turn, at inappropriate volumes, and missed all four nine-week parties.

Our entire life was spent trying to help him feel better. His two younger sisters felt left-out and began acting out as well. Finally, three things happened all at once, that did not necessarily make our lives easier, but provided us with understanding that had been missing for nine tantrum-filled years. 1. We found an excellent psychiatrist from Vanderbilt. 2. My husband had a friend at work whose son had similar traits. And 3, as crazy as this sounds, I watched a television show called Parenthood where one of the families has a son with Aspergers. As soon as I saw the first episode, I said, "That is my son. That's Connor."

Now, my son is in 5th grade, has a diagnosis that makes sense and with which we can work, has appropriate medication, has an IEP, an awesome teacher, and is in the Gifted program at his school. He still has trouble understanding friendships, but he has come such a long way. We work with a therapist and social stories and role play to help him with the social interactions that plague him. Public meltdowns are still troublesome for his dad, and Connor's outbursts are beginning to embarrass his sisters, but we are working on all of that now. Connor may have the official diagnosis, but our whole family is affected. We have Aspergers because it is not just Connor's journey, it is our family's journey as well. Connor knows he has Aspergers, but we tell him this is not a disability and it does not define him. He is so much more than "an Aspie." He is creative and artistic. He loves music. He is different in that everyone on this Earth is different; he just looks at the world from a different window than the rest of us....