When My Autistic Grandson Taught Me How to ‘Fly’
I am told most autistic kids like order. They place objects in neat little lines and carefully group things together according to size, shape or color.
My grandson, Noah — not so much.
Noah likes the complete opposite of orderly. If he sees a neat little line of anything, it must be destroyed. Every cabinet door or kitchen drawer must be opened.
Every refrigerator magnet must be pulled down to the ground, and every box must be emptied. It seems to be his mission. As soon as he walks into the kitchen, he checks the refrigerator for magnets. They should not be there, and if they are, they must come down — all of them.
Needless to say, his playroom is usually a mess. It’s almost pointless to try and clean it. We have to clean while he’s asleep and then pray he doesn’t notice when he wakes up.
Having said all that, there are things Noah does that I try to learn from every day, like the fact he’s not a rigid person. He’s actually pretty flexible and goes with the flow. He goes where we go without any complaint, and if his dinner is a little late or his nap time is a little off schedule, he’s OK with it. I like that in a person.
He never throws tantrums; he usually gets what he wants by being patient with us and trying to point or sign. And if that doesn’t work, he will settle on something else. I think we should all be more like that.
He really wants to interact with us; he pulls us to his playroom or hands us his puzzle pieces to play, and he knows we will follow his lead. Another prime example of how adults should live — show someone you love what you want, or need, and then lead the way to get it.
But best of all, when Noah is happy, everyone knows it. He runs in this out-of-control kind of way with his arms raised in front of him like they’re expecting his little legs to go faster (even though they already seem to be going way too fast), laughing and screaming the whole time. It’s like he’s just on the edge of out-of-control, but somehow, against any logical explanation, controlled.
And then, sometimes, while he’s running in this half-controlled/half-uncontrolled race around the living room, he will throw his head back and close his eyes. It’s amazing because he usually rounds the corner without bumping into any walls or furniture. He’s just — flying.
Can you see him?
His eyes closed, his head back, his arms out in front to guide him, running at full speed, rounding the corner as if his eyes were wide open — laughing and flying.
I see it every time I close my eyes at night. It’s one of the most beautiful things about Noah.
I mean, sure, he’s messy and loud and basically noise with dirt on it, but what little boy isn’t?
It’s his reckless abandonment.
His complete lack of fear.
The trust he has in himself to get around the next corner, with his eyes closed, like he’s flying, without a care in the world — that’s what’s beautiful about Noah.
And then I think, I suppose if he can do it, I can try, right?
I don’t know what’s coming around the next corner, and I pretty much feel blindfolded myself. I would love to be able to do that — to fly.
I wonder if we all could feel like that at some point in our lives — that feeling of wanting to fly and just being able to trust in ourselves, in God, and know we can round that corner, blindfolded, and still be all right.
Well, I’ve been thinking maybe we could all learn a lesson from the little blue-eyed wonder boy who seems to be flying around my living room.
Trust. Fly. Close your eyes, throw your head back, don’t forget to laugh and then go for it.
Because he looks pretty happy to me.
A version of this post first appeared on G-Maw and Noah.