Autism never goes on vacation.
I didn’t know that before this precious boy.
At least, I didn’t think about it.
Vacation is a getaway, realistically, a relocation.
For autism though, it’s tough stuff.
New places. New beds. New activities.
Autism doesn’t like new so much.
New is scary at our house and things like jacuzzi jets or gas station bathroom hand dryers can set off a great big noisy fuss.
We have more of those on vacation.
It’s okay, truly, but it is a lot.
We roll with the punches and we learn to laugh when we want to cry.
We pitch in and help each other and we feel proud when we don’t yell.
No, autism doesn’t take vacation, but I’ll still take autism on vacation.
He sat in his chair for a whole meal out last night.
He rode in the car for six hours and never cried, not even one time.
He walked to greet his brother, with no encouragement from me, when we picked him up from a week long mission trip.
He threw carrot cake muffins at breakfast.
He begged a half of bottle of water off some friendly folks from Chicago who we met on a hike.
He walked nearly two miles to a waterfall and up a zillion steps, with only the encouragement of two bags of m & m’s.
At the end of today, a long hot day, he found his spot on the back porch.
The sound of running water soothed his tired small self and he ate the popcorn that he flung a couple nights ago.
This is autism on vacation.
We shall be back.
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