Following up on my last post, I wanted to share some photos of Colin from his birthday celebrations, which stretched from last Thursday (2/26) until Saturday evening (2/28). These are just unedited shots taken with my shoddy iPhone 8. But I wanted to save them here so I can find them in the future.
I hope everyone has a great week ahead.
My son, Colin, turns ten years old today. I wasn’t planning to write about his birthday, but the significance of the occasion struck me as I warmed my coffee in the microwave this morning.
And right or wrong, every thought and emotion about Colin is filtered through the lens of his autism. He was diagnosed with Autism Spectrum Disorder in 2018. I wrote about that experience in this essay.
I realize how lucky I am to be Colin’s dad, especially since I was so late to the game of marriage and family. His presence reframes my existence. My job, my creative ambitions, and everything else in my life are secondary to being a good husband to my wife, Pam, and a good father to Colin.
Before rushing off to work, I wanted to share some previously published poems about parenthood and Colin, along with some photos of him.
Colin Joseph DiClemente at the pediatrician’s office.
Entrance
As blood, urine and feces stain the hospital sheets,
a nurse tells a mother-to-be,
“Honey, don’t be embarrassed.
What happens in the delivery room,
stays in the delivery room.”
The mother-to-be moans and sheds tears
as the epidural wears off and the labor reaches its climax
with a medieval torture method known as “Tug of War”—
sheets wrapped around ankles, legs hoisted in the air
and pulled apart as the mother-to-be screams
and squeezes her muscles and makes the final push until …
a tiny male human, slimy and alien-looking,
pops out of the womb with a full head of downy, brown hair
and soft, pliable ears like a Teddy bear.
The mother blurts out three words:
“Baby, baby, baby.”
The doctor transfers the squirming newborn to her breast,
and the two bond with skin-to-skin contact.
Love and happiness flow.
The task is completed, the effort done.
The child has safely entered the world.
But the real hard work has just begun.
Colin Joseph DiClemente. Age 2 years, 8 months.
The Great Equalizer
The democratic nature of parenthood.
It doesn’t matter who you are—
man, woman or trans, gay or straight,
Black, white or any other shade,
tall or short, skinny or fat, rich or poor—
when your toddler is wailing
in a grocery store or shopping mall,
when the feet are stomping, the arms swinging,
the cheeks reddened and the tears rolling—
all you want to do is pick up the child
and make the crying stop.
Wealth, social standing and comely looks
mean nothing to kids; they’re not impressed
by your credentials and you can’t negotiate
with these little angels and tyrants who rule the world.
Two clichés apply here:
parenting wipes the slate clean
and levels the playing field.
All mothers and fathers desire the same thing—
the health, safety and
development of their offspring.
The goals are simple amid the frenzy
of a life marked by stress and lack of sleep.
They are: eat the chicken nuggets, drink the apple juice,
recite the alphabet, put away the toys, finish the milk,
wave bye-bye and go down easy at nap time.
Pam and Colin outside NBT Bank Stadium.
Human Anatomy
Beneath the ribs
beats the heart
of a child,
waiting for its mother,
longing to be fed—
not just with milk and food,
but also with love.
Colin playing in the feeding therapy room.
Nap Time
Late afternoon, Sunday, gray light
seeping in through parted curtains.
Mother and baby sleeping on the couch,
hair tousled, right cheek against left breast,
elbows curved at equal angles.
I am awake, drinking coffee,
watching their chests rise and fall,
and trying not to make any noise.
My whole life revealed in the space
of three sofa cushions occupied by
two human beings who need me.
Soon the boy will stir;
soon he will squirm and cry, scatter his toys
and race around the cluttered living room.
Soon we will fix dinner
and wash dishes and take out the garbage.
But now time is suspended like a Rod Serling
freeze frame in a Twilight Zone episode—
a halting of activity, a pause in my Sunday
leading to reflection and gratitude for my blessings.
Warmth, safety and responsibility
are the words that pop into my head
while I observe mother and child stretched out together.
I don’t think about what I lack
or what I hope to attain and achieve.
In this moment, I have everything I need.
Pam and Colin.
Exam Room Revelation
“Autism Spectrum Disorder.”
The moment those words
escape the doctor’s lips,
our son’s future
appears bleaker.
The phrases
“special needs,
delayed communication
and lack of
social interaction” follow.
Sorrow for my son Colin
gushes inside me.
I feel sadness
for the challenges
he will endure,
and for his inability
to have a normal life.
In this case,
love proves impotent.
You can’t intercede
with your heart.
And compassion won’t fix
the little boy
sleeping in his bed
as I type out
this bad poem
while lamenting
the diagnosis.
But love for him
does not decrease.
Instead, it grows stronger.
I am grateful
for the blessing
of the boy he is …
and the man
I hope
he will become—
regardless of autism.
Bedtime
Eventually, I’ll fall asleep,
but until then my kid
keeps annoying me,
flicking on the bedroom light
and screaming incoherent phrases—
bits of songs that make
some sense inside his mind.
Telling him “shh” does no good,
and I can’t decipher the words he speaks,
but I do enjoy hearing the sounds they make
when they escape his mouth,
as I close my eyes and try to get some sleep.
Crying at Bedtime
Nothing prepares a parent
for the tantrums of an autistic child.
There’s no well of patience to draw from.
You adapt. You divert. You distract.
You do whatever it takes to calm the child down—
until you earn that blessed moment of peace,
when his eyelids drop and he drifts off to sleep,
his small body folded in the cradle of your arms.
Colin drew with a Sharpie on the living room floor.
Autism Sleeps
My son sleeps,
curled under a blanket
on the couch.
His outbursts have ceased.
His cries and screams quieted.
His stimming stopped.
It’s like his autism
is in remission.
In sleep, he becomes
like any other child.
Observation After Eating Out
Pity for my son swells.
Yet I feel helpless,
Unable to intervene
To make his autism
Go away.
Our patience dwindles
As his outbursts intensify.
But love does not wane.
Instead, it grows stronger.
I have only one son.
Yes, he is different.
He is noisy and
Requires constant attention.
But I am thankful for
His presence in my life.
And who needs the quiet anyway?
I celebrated my birthday yesterday by relaxing at home with my family. As kids are wont to do, my son, Colin, blew out the candle on the cake, so we had to light it twice.
Colin Joe getting reading to blow out the candle.
I snuck in a couple of wishes, but mostly I felt enormous gratitude for still being here for another day and another year.
The night before I reflected on my recovery from surgery and my birthday, journaling for a few minutes while standing near my bedroom dresser. I am not a habitual journal writer, but I have notebooks scattered throughout the house to be available when the urge strikes me. Often my journal entries—which I always convert to a long-running Word document—contain mundane facts and banal thoughts with no potential to become raw material for a poem, story, or essay. However, sometimes the act of moving my pen on paper will lead me to a line that initiates energy.
And this is what I came up with the other night. It’s not a great poem, but I was happy I wrote it in a spontaneous burst and finished it in one draft.
On the Eve of My Fifty-Fourth Birthday
There has to be more
to this life than
just what we see.
Or else there isn’t—
in which case
death won’t be
so scary.
It’ll just be a
harmless place
devoid of life.
And you and I
can handle that, right?
I don’t usually post family-related stuff on this blog, but I wanted to share that we celebrated Colin’s seventh birthday on Sunday. And last Friday morning, Colin completed his feeding therapy program at the Golisano Center for Special Needs. The amazing staff there gave him presents, a card, a certificate, and a cap and gown—which he refused to wear.
Colin is not interested in wearing the cap.
Staff members streamed into his therapy room, saying things like: “Congratulations. Way to go, buddy. You did it. You worked so hard. We’re so proud of you.”
As the father of an autistic child, I realize the importance of celebrating these milestones, these little victories along the way. But the main credit belongs to my wife, Pam, who took Colin to therapy every weekday morning, drove him to school afterward, and employed the tools of therapy at home.
Colin playing in the feeding therapy room.
And Colin has made significant progress. Before we started the program, his diet consisted of milk with yogurt, Entenmann’s Little Bites muffins (brownie flavor), Chips Ahoy! and Oreo cookies, and different varieties of potato chips.
Now he will eat yogurt with a spoon, cereal bars, Life and Cheerios cereal (no milk), French toast, and pizza.
He entertains me with the way he eats pizza in stages. He eats the cheese first and then the sauce, before digging out the dough and leaving behind the crust, like a shell (which I usually eat).
Colin’s feeding therapy certificate.
##
On Sunday morning, Pam made pancakes for his birthday, but Colin opted for potato chips. Later in the day, he blew out the number 7 candle on his cake, licked some frosting and ate the candy balloons on top, and then picked at a slice of Wegmans’ cheese pizza.
Colin’s birthday cake.
He also played with the foam blocks and dice Pam bought him, and he slipped on the slightly oversized Pokémon Crocs. I think the shoes were his favorite present.
It’s hard to imagine he is now seven years old. It seems like just yesterday we brought him home from the hospital—Pam and I both nervous (me terrified) about being new parents. And about two-and-a-half years after his birth, we received the official diagnosis of autism spectrum disorder (ASD) and adjusted our expectations for our child.
Colin celebrating his seventh birthday.
Life with Colin is fraught with challenges, but the joy of his presence illuminates our days.
And he’s showing improvement. He talks a little when prompted by Pam and he can add and subtract now.
I am grateful for this little boy, and he has taught me love and patience beyond my perceived ability, beyond what I thought I was capable of.
I’ll leave you with a silly little poem.
Poem for Colin
Seven years old.
The joy of our son.
Sadness for
Lack of communication.
But love everlasting.
Colin sporting his new Crocs.
I am celebrating my 52nd birthday today. And with each passing year, I feel the weight of mortality and the footsteps of death encroaching. It’s a presence I can’t escape, like Bergman’s grim reaper in The Seventh Seal.
In reality, though, you don’t need a birthday to be struck by that feeling. An impending sense of finality hits me every morning I awaken. But I also feel overwhelming gratitude when I am granted another morning, another day, another opportunity to create and share time and space and precious moments with loved ones.
A poem by the late poet Mark Strand seems fitting for this birthday and for this moment in time under COVID. To me it expresses the fleeting nature of existence.
Mark Strand, 1934-2014
The Coming of Light
Even this late it happens:
the coming of love, the coming of light.
You wake and the candles are lit as if by themselves,
stars gather, dreams pour into your pillows,
sending up warm bouquets of air.
Even this late the bones of the body shine
and tomorrow’s dust flares into breath.
To Mr. Strand’s words, I add a few poems of my own, all focused on the unavoidable outcome of existence. They remind me to accept the inevitable while still trying to extract meaning out of a life that must cease one day.
Interment
I imagine the coffin lid closing,
the pine box being lowered into the pit,
shovels of dirt hitting the top,
and no one hearing me scream,
“Let me out. Let me out,”
as I realize I’ve run out of time
to make my life count.
What You Get
There is nothing you can do
to avoid becoming dust.
You can try to elongate your life,
but you will expire one day.
And whether cremated
or buried in the earth,
your body will not
survive this world.
Maybe your soul will
travel somewhere else,
but really, who knows for sure?
In this existence,
you are granted only two things:
Right Here. Right Now.
That’s all you get.
So make the most of it.
Awareness
How many people are dying
in emergency rooms
at this exact moment?
Right now, how many people are
exhaling their last breaths?
How many loved ones
arrive too late to say goodbye?
Each day ushers in death—
and while we sleep,
smashed brains, shattered bones,
plugged arteries, faulty hearts,
cancer and other diseases
claim their victims.
We try not to notice.
We try to avoid the truth.
We rush about our lives,
never knowing when
our time will come—
until one day it does.
I can’t live like that.
I can’t avoid the obvious.
I need to face death daily,
to recognize it lurking, prowling,
ready to pounce on me.
This knowledge of death
creeping nearby forces me
to examine my existence
and ascertain if I am useful—
wise with my time or wasteful.
I accept the finite offering
of a limited lifespan—
what little measure
of time God has granted.
It’s up to me to make it count.
Outward Arrangements: Poems by Francis DiClemente (2021).
Our son, Colin Joseph, celebrates his fourth birthday today. And being a late bloomer in all aspects of life, I never expected to carry the title of husband and father. Yet here I am, nearly 51, a family man who has shed his bachelor status. And being the father of an autistic child has taught me the importance of striving and attempting—because that’s all you can do is try—to practice patience, humility, gratitude and acceptance. Acceptance is the key.
Colin Joseph sleeping.
I know this evening when we celebrate Colin’s birthday, he will likely not blow out the candles or eat a slice of his birthday cake. He may not pick up or play with his new Woody and Buzz Lightyear toys. He may preoccupy himself with the string of the balloon my wife bought him. And that could go on for hours.
We work hard to help Colin improve his communication and social interaction skills. But progress is slow, and we don’t know if he will get better with time. So I have to remind myself to love the child we have, exactly as he is right now, knowing he may never become a “normal” boy. It’s a crude reference, but the situation calls to mind the Stephen Stills’ song, “Love The One You’re With.”
“Well there’s a rose in a fisted glove
And the eagle flies with the dove
And if you can’t be with the one you love, honey
Love the one you’re with …”
For now, I am grateful for the blessing of the little angel/mischievous rascal who turns four years old today.
As I celebrate my 50th birthday today, I want to offer some brief reflections on hitting the half-century mark.
Most importantly, I must express gratitude for surviving this long. Since 1984 I have endured four surgeries to remove a craniopharyngioma (pituitary tumor) and its remnants, as well as managing the hypopituitarism that followed. In subsequent years, the diseases of osteoporosis and rheumatoid arthritis have been added to my medical history. But my diminishing health has taught me some important lessons. Here they are:
So there’s only one more thought on turning 50: I don’t know how many more years I have left on this planet, but I will try to make each day memorable, not in achievement but in the ways I connect with others, spread compassion and leave a positive impact wherever I tread.
Francis DiClemente 