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Put a Fork In It

A mom of a moderately autistic son watches as he conquers another challenge.

 

It was just a utensil, lying innocuously next to my eldest’s son’s plate, generally ignored and unwanted. It usually acts as the forlorn mate to the small fork my youngest has used with gusto for about a year now, the stainless steel that replaced the tiny Transformer prongs Zach was loathe to abandon.

My husband and I have spent years, (seems like longer,) attempting to get Justin to use it independently. To date, this particular tool has only been utilized when we’ve conducted the ABA dance of work and reward, or in this case, “use your fork Justin, and you get something better from Mommy’s plate.”

Clearly, it’s not tragic if he doesn’t use it regularly. Frankly I’m just grateful that he eats at all, as we’ve had that issue in the not-too-distant past as well. It’s a nicety, like blowing his nose into a tissue and not his sleeve (we’ve mostly conquered that one, thank goodness), but it’s one I’d like him to acquire, since I won’t always be there to cajole him into it. I’d pretty much given up on him using it without a prompt, although I’ve not let go of him incorporating it into his mealtime manners.

There are times however when phones ring, or five-year-old little brothers are particularly demanding, and I just can’t sit with him to insist. Since I was about to depart for an evening of fun (!), tonight was one of those evenings where my head was far more oriented toward charging iPads and signing daily notes than what was transpiring over the kids’ jungle-themed plates. Just as I was washing up perhaps the twenty-fifth dish of the meal (perhaps a slight exaggeration) my husband grasped my arm and pulled me behind the table and Justin, then stage-whispered, “Look!”.

Since I still had at least another fifty things to clean before my exit I gave him a look that said “this better be good”, swung aroung, and got up on tip-toe to see what miracle had been unveiled chez McCafferty. And miracle it was, as I witnessed my son wielding a fork with diligence and accuracy as he twirled his spaghetti somewhat successfully on a grown-up fork, something he could only have seen me or Zach do on pasta night.

Not only was he using a utensil, he was imitating his sibling. I immediately made a dash for my camera.

Quite often with even a two-foot space between me and my digital, I’m too late to the party. My boy pushes his plate away before I’ve even taken my shot, and begins making his way toward the sink. Jeff informs me he lifted that three-pronged staple to his mouth at least a half-dozen times before abandoning the meal, and he did it without a single prompt, nudge, or nag. We haven’t witnessed a miracle. He isn’t speaking in full sentences, eager to join baseball games with the neighborhood boys, or abandoning the light-up/musical/perseverative toys he’s adored since infancy. This is nothing of that magnitude.

No, it’s just a slight alteration in a routine, one that might not be repeated. But it’s one more tiny step toward some state of independence that I always envision for my son. Quite recently it follows initiating conversation on his iPad, and allowing his sibling’s monster-scaring work-of-art to remain gracing the walls of his room. This minor leap of progress is preceded by my boy recently dressing himself with ease, and gently resting his hand on the top of his brother’s head during story-time. Tiny moments, so easily missed if you’re not looking for them.

Of course, I always am, because after so many years of struggle, they mean everything.

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