The Siblings

Or, Learning how to handle hard better

So many of our mornings start with a yell. The Yell. Cannon can’t find the game he wants to play or his blue shirt is missing or maybe he stubbed his toe walking up the stairs in the dark, but whatever it is that is troubling him, most of the house knows about it before 7:00am. The Yell is Cannon’s expression, his anger, his hurt, his frustration, his stifled longing to be understood all wrapped up in one. All of us, even his five siblings, are well acquainted with The Yell.

 Mostly, it doesn’t bother the kids too much. Like the mother who can have a conversation with her friend through a diaper change and a fussy toddler wanting attention, the kids go on with their days like The Yell is just background noise. Sometimes they’ll ask him to be quiet, if they are watching a show or trying to talk to me, but they also know he doesn’t respond well to being asked to be quiet, and they are good at letting him have the time he needs to calm down on his own. 

But last week, well, that was different, because The Yell came with us to Costco. Even for Alex and me–the adults who are supposed to know what to do in anxious situations–The Yell in public places is incredibly stressful, a whole different kind of anxiety than The Yell inside the walls of our home. People start looking. Attention is drawn. We can feel the eyes of strangers on us and have to pretend we don’t care about the thoughts that accompany them. And really, I get it. I, too, am not immune to following with my eyes the nearby yells of a child. It’s human nature, and if The Yell was signaling any kind of trouble or nefarious activity by a stranger, I would want onlookers to be concerned. But The Yell is almost always just signaling that Cannon is mad, again, about the game, or the shirt, or his toe. 

Or in this case, the night of the Costco trip, not being able to stop at the train station before we went shopping.

He had calmed down enough to walk in toward the carts in the lobby without issue, his hand gripped tightly in Alex’s, but as we got everyone in the two carts we needed, he started to get very, very loud. I knew Alex could handle him and didn’t need my help at that moment, so I looked over at Harper, whose eyes met mine with a pleading to make the yelling stop. 

“Mom, this is so embarrassing,” she came close and whispered into my chest where she buried her face.

“I know, honey.” 

I know. 

We shopped as fast as we could, pulling out every trick we had in our bags to keep Cannon happy as we quickly grabbed bread and eggs and clementines. We survived, but it was one of those nights that we couldn’t get back to the car fast enough. And though it was not the first time I’ve seen the distress on their faces, in the way they carry their bodies when their brother is upset, it was probably the most impactful. My other kids couldn’t get back to the car fast enough, either. 

A few days later, while driving in the car, Cannon was upset about something else, I cannot recall exactly what. I do remember turning around and seeing Ava and Beckett with their hands over their ears, and Jordi leaning his head on his hand in the backseat, and Harper trying to stay calm next to Cannon but incredibly frustrated at the level of noise she had to tolerate. 

It’s not embarrassing when it’s just us. But it is still really, really tough. 

Not a day goes by that I don’t think about autism’s effect on the siblings that don’t have it themselves. After all, we talk often about how hard things are for Cannon. Our other children have been taught from a young age that fair does not always mean equal, and the discipline loopholes are almost always going to fall in Cannon’s favor, not theirs. They’ve accepted this; they really don’t know any other way. 

I remember nursing Jordi in the waiting room of the pediatric neurologist while Cannon was tested for possible absent seizures, and letting him sleep in his carseat while Cannon went through yet another developmental assessment. Harper and Jordi were dragged along to Cannon’s therapy appointments for three years, playing in hallways, waiting in lobbies, sometimes being allowed to join as peer models. And when Ava, Beckett, and Braylen joined the crew, Cannon’s routine at school and therapy was well-established. They have always known, we get in the car every morning and we take Cannon to his school. That’s how it works around here. 

But I cannot deny that as much as Cannon's life is defined by his autism, his siblings’ lives are also–in so many ways–shaped by it too. And this means covering their ears, adapting schedules, no shortage of frustrating moments, and yes, a good amount of embarrassment.

The question is always close by: how will noise and cancellations and frustrations and embarrassment shape them? What kind of childhood will they remember?

Well, I guess–like anything–it could go one of two directions: toward self-pity, or toward radical compassion. 

When they are adults sitting across from a therapist, will they tell of the moments at Costco that they wanted to run as far from this family as possible, and hide themselves from the embarrassment and the shame? Or will they talk about a brother limited by a mind that betrays him, and a body that reacts to this world like it is sometimes too painful for him to live in, embracing what it means to suffer with someone else– which is exactly what the word compassion means?  

Ultimately, I cannot control this outcome for my children. 

But if the same way noise and cancellations and frustrations and embarrassment will shape me– shape all of us– what I can control is my choice. Will I go toward self-pity, or toward radical compassion?

I’m worried about what kind of childhood my typical children will remember, of course. But, I don’t know, maybe if I orient my heart toward a life that I will remember with compassion, that’s my best shot at helping them do the same. That, and a whole lot of prayer for God to do in their hearts what I can’t. 

I recently saw a speech by Kara Lawson, the Women’s Basketball coach at Duke, where she talked to her players about a question every human being asks at some point: “When is it going to get easier?” 

I’ve asked this myself dozens, maybe hundreds of times, thinking it will get easier when Cannon has more words, it will get easier when he is potty trained, it will get easier when he is in school all day, it will get easier when, when, when, when. But Lawson reminded me of something I know inherently, yet needed to remember: “It doesn’t get easier. Nothing in life gets easier. But you learn to handle hard better.” 

That night in the van when I turned around and saw the despondent looks on my kids’ faces, and the hands covering their ears, I told them what I needed to hear myself in that moment, when I have to reckon, again, with the truth that nothing is getting easier: “Hey team, you all are doing a very good job at a very hard thing. I love you.” 

At the very least, I hope they remember that about their childhood, their whole life, really: right alongside their mom and dad, they are learning what it means to handle hard better.