“My son?” James asked, his voice wavering, his brows knit with concern and his lower lip jutting and trembling slightly. James had misbehaved and I had verbally disciplined him, making him very upset.
James is autistic, or more accurately, he suffers from autism spectrum disorder. Because of his disability, his communication skills lag far behind his age group, but he is, in all other respects, a normal little boy. All little boys get into trouble, sometimes driving their parents to distraction and James is no different. Usually, I am able to maintain my composure, but sometimes my patience is exhausted and I react with anger as well as discipline. At these times, my scolding is much more vehement than normal and he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that I am very angry with him.
I had started calling him “my son” during his early infancy, a habit that I maintained since the birth of my eldest son, 26 years earlier. I knew that it sounded slightly archaic and I believe it had its roots in a phrase that my mother had used over a half century earlier, when, in an uncommonly good mood, she would address me as “my son, boy son.” When my oldest son began to talk, almost without thought, I began answering the question, “Daddy?” with the simple phrase, “Yes, my son?” My first son grew up with it and never thought it unusual. When James was born, I simply took up where I had left off with my firstborn.
“Daddy?” James would ask for whatever reason.
“Yes, my son?” I would answer and try to determine his request or question. I had always been patient with questions from my children and answered with a calm, good humor.
This time, James had hurt his younger brother, Ian, and I was hot. Sixteen years of childhood abuse from my older brother has made me despise bullying and I will not tolerate it among my children. After vehemently scolding him and pointing out just how unacceptable his behavior was, I was still angry. Now, I had reduced James to the point of tears, tears that he stubbornly refused to shed.
“Daddy?” he asked.
“What?” I snapped, still steaming over his behavior.
“My son?” he pleaded.
Despite his inability to communicate, he was articulate, after his own fashion, and I realized, once again, the power that I held over my son. Upset with my reaction, he sought reassurance of my love. I am his rock and my love for him is a refuge as he seeks to deal with his disability. His punishment had been administered and, as much as I wanted to stay angry, it was time to forgive. I had to show him that although I was very upset with his behavior, I still loved and always would love him. I closed my eyes briefly, sighed and with some effort, I mastered my anger.
“Yes, my son?” I answered, gently.
Bill Bartlett lives in Belton with his beloved wife Sandi, their two sons, two dogs and a rather pompous cat.