Bittersweet September

September is one of my favorite months. Few things can match a New England fall, except perhaps the autumn months in the Rocky Mountains, and I have been lucky to experience both. Cooler weather, bright warm colors, apples ripe for picking, a smell of crisp cinnamon lingering in the air. All of these sites and sensations signal the year's maturity.

September in Texas is hotter than most places, but we usually begin to feel relief in the evenings, making it a great time for riding bikes or playing in the back yard when the sun starts to set. Even here in the Lone Star State I can take a deep breath of the changing air and feel a calmness that is not possible at any other time.

We took the kids on a bike ride last night that led us directly to Ian's favorite pizza place. The kids ordered enormous slices of cheese pizza, Steve chose a deep dish Sicilian, and I opted for a salad. We dined on the cool patio where the breeze reminded us that we were still in the city. It had the occasional scent of warm tire tread mixed in with cut grass and car exhaust. Not exactly the spicy aroma we had in Massachusetts.

The kids looked really tired as they finished their dinner. We put on our helmets and headed back up the hill toward our house, hoping the cars would see us through the dusk. Both Ian and Ainsley gave it all they had and seemed to enjoy the hard work. It was a good sweat, one that is a reward for giving muscles a challenge. When we arrived home, Ian was grinning, pleased with himself and reveling in the new experience. Ainsley talked and sang to herself.

It was in that moment I realized how tired I felt. It wasn't from pedaling a mile or so uphill. Rather, it was mental exhaustion for hearing Ainsley chatter non-stop for the last hour and a half. Literally. . .she started talking when we left the house and had not stopped. Very little of her conversation during that time was directed at the rest of the family. It was all inside her head and spilling out. She rarely invited the rest of us to the party, even when we asked to join.

I often wonder what is going on inside my children's heads that makes them so distracted. Is it amplified sounds from their environment? Are there voices that only exist between their ears? Is it music? Are there bells ringing? Are they working out complex math problems? Remembering stories they have read? Do they block out everything going on around them so they can focus on their own thoughts? As a parent, it is like living in Horton Hears a Who, searching through the clover patch trying to find that single, tiny speck with all the answers.


I imagine for Ainsley it is much like the infinite colors in the changing leaves, bombarding her thoughts and senses with too much information to be able to see the beauty of the entire experience. Will medication help her see the details as well as the whole?

On Tuesday, when Ainsley sees the neurologist, we may be forced to deal with even more questions, many of which will have no answers. Without knowing if she has other autism related disorders, I feel that dusk is settling into a frosty night. Without a label, the complications are mounting and we don't know how to deal with them. Only one thing is certain: changes are coming for our family. It's time to take a very slow, deep breath.