Rowan is my baby, my special child. Autistic, helpless, and totally innocent. He couldn’t hurt a fly, even if he wanted to. He laughs his way through life, seemingly unaware of just how different he is. He took it in stride when we left our home in a rush. He took it in stride the day I had to surrender him to the group home so he could be stable. He hugged me, said “goodbye mom,” then immediately turned to a staff member and announced he was hungry.
Rowan is always hungry.
He can put away a full dinner and ask for more without blinking. It’s the first thing he says to anyone we visit. It’s a little embarrassing — I’m always afraid people won’t believe I actually feed him.
Now that I finally have a place to live, we’ve fallen into a routine. He’s dropped off to me every Saturday, and I bring him to his Day Program down the street each Monday morning. He spends the weekend with me, and I truly do cherish the time we have together. I say mostly cherish, not to be mean, but Rowan has a way of making even a sane person a little crazy.
The first thing he says when he sees me is, “Are you going to make me spaghetti?” followed immediately by, “Did you miss me.” Two phrases he repeats almost constantly the entire time he’s with me. Then we start the “is it closed” routine. Without giving me time to answer, I get:
“Is program closed?” “Is the group home closed?”
He repeats this in a continuous loop from the moment he arrives until he gets out of the car at Day Program. It can be exhausting. I do my best to answer each time. I’ve tried using the same answers — no help. I’ve tried reasoning with him — no luck there either.
It’s as though his memory program is stuck in one place and refuses to move anywhere else.
Each weekend he gets his favorites: oatmeal for breakfast and some kind of pasta meal before he goes back. He sits on the couch and watches TV, scrolling through channels like he always has, entertained by the pictures flashing across the screen. It’s a simple existence, but one I look forward to every week.
I don’t know what I would do without his ever‑revolving questions.
Still standing, another weekend down, another lesson in patience and love,
K.