Birthday Hostility

December 27, 2006. Six years ago today, what I knew about autism could fit in a tea cup. It started with an A and ended in -utism. Wait... Did I even know how to spell it? Not sure.
Today, what I know about autism could fill a million tea cups. You should see the library of books I've read, and counted the hours I've spent searching the Internet for answers.
But what I know about Waylon? Next to nil.
Today, December 27, 2012, my boy turns six. And I want to scream at the blanks in the baby book that glare at me each time I get the courage to open it. 'My favorite color' or 'My first friend.'
Who is this kid who lives in my house? Where is he at? If he woke up one morning without this invisible cloak of autism, would he say, "Mom, not oatmeal again! You know I hate oatmeal!"?
I want to ask him who he wants on his birthday cake. I want to know if he likes grape or strawberry jelly. Recess or lunch. Chicken nuggets or a hamburger.

I wish instead of delivering a placenta minutes after Waylon, I would have delivered an instruction booklet. I think it would have said things like,
"Don't let Waylon eat anything red before you go out in public."
Or "Don't leave the toilet paper on the roll so he can spin it all out."
Or "Don't punch the lady who says, 'And how old are you, little man? Did you tell Santa what you want for Christmas?'"
Have you heard him squealing for the last hour, lady? He can't talk.
She just doesn't understand.
Or maybe it would say, "Start a blog so you can vent all your frustrations instead of taking them out on Waylon.
He just doesn't understand."

So here's the thing. I'm really not a negative person. I think my glass is generally half-full, but sometimes just barely. And unfortunately, Waylon's birthday is usually one of those days. Another year has gone by, the clock is ticking. I want to meet my son someday. And I want you to, too. He is a really cool person, I just know it.

Floor puzzle heaven. Proof that you don't have to be able to talk for Santa to know all your wishes.