The Boy Who Made Me Dream Again by Nicole Gusto

A mother’s journey in raising a child with autism.

This prose work was performed as a dramatic monologue by Theater 2108 in December 2018.

​From the author:

I work as a pediatric speech therapist for kids and have spent a lot of time listening to the stories of mothers who have children with autism. Their stories of grief, acceptance, love, and courage have changed much of my thinking about disability, and I had hoped that my short stories could honor their (and their children’s) experiences.

Listen to the author read her work:

You came on Christmas Eve of 2015—my best Christmas gift. You took a mighty gasp of air and screamed as if you wanted everyone to know, “I’m here! I’m alive!” I cradled your little body, kissed you, and said, “You’re mine. I love you!”

I sang for you, I’ve loved you since forever, I’ve loved you since forever, I’ve loved you since forever, and I will love you ’til forever.

You leaned in, heart racing against my chest, like you were singing it back to me, “I’ve loved you since forever too, Mommy.”

2016 began. Honestly, I was never the person who made “resolutions,” but that year, I made my first real one: “Sammy, I resolve to be the best mommy I can be. I promise I’ll keep dreaming for you.”

You shifted my universe. You were a bright new planet, and I, the moon, was caught in your orbit. I loved watching you grow like young earth sprouting flowers for the first time.

I once dreamed that you’d become a basketball player ’cause you liked tossing toys. By the time you were ten months old, I figured you’d be the next Pollock, because you enjoyed painting blobs with your fingers. When you turned one, you seemed to like building blocks more. I thought, “Maybe he’d grow to be an engineer? For NASA!”

Whatever you choose, I promise I’ll be there for you. I’ll bring you to the first day of pre-school. I’ll play with you at the park. I’ll help you get ready for that prom date when you’re a teenager; and when you’re finally marching on graduation day, I’ll be there.

2017 came and went, and I learned it the hard way. Dreaming too much—no matter how valid for a mommy—could be painful. You turned two, and I noticed it by then—you were different. You weren’t like the other kids. You lived in your own world. You stared at the lights but never looked at us. You never called me “Mama.” Actually, you never spoke. You hated hugs. You hated kisses. You pushed me away but grabbed my hand when you needed help with your toys.

Lego was your favorite. You stacked those blocks over and over again. Lined them up. Stared at their edges. Stacked them again. But always in silence. The only time you used your voice was when you screamed. And when you screamed, the world tilted. You shrieked as if all the pain burst through your skin. You cried, but only because of a honking car. Feeding time was a war between your sensitive mouth and the puréed bananas.

“What am I doing wrong? How can I help you when you can’t tell me why sounds hurt or why touch shatters you? Or why food traumatizes you every time?”

Autism. That’s what the doctor said. My universe caved in when I heard that word.

They said you screamed because everything was a confusing mess, a never-ending rush of information. You were always in your glass box, experiencing reality from a different lens; my kisses and hugs a distorted, painful touch on your skin. How many times have I wanted to sit with you in that box and make you understand? I wanted to be in your world. I wanted you to be in mine.

But autism was like the gravity repelling our orbits. You’re different. Period. This “autism” label singles you out for the rest of your life.

No more basketball player. No more painter. No more prom dates. No more college kid. No more dreams?

I was crying when I found you playing Lego again. Lining them up. Stacking the blocks again and again and again. And it was new. You built them in perfect order. Red. Orange. Yellow. Green. Blue. Purple. The colors of the rainbow. You paid this much attention after all. I’m realizing it a little too late—autism won’t stop you from being brilliant in your own way.

You smiled over these Lego towers, these rainbow creations. You gazed at lights like they were angels, chasing them like they’re butterflies.

I wished that your earth grew sunflowers, but you were meant to grow roses instead.

I’m still new at this, Sammy. I’m new at being a mommy—at being a dreamer. I’m still unskilled in the art of being okay when dreams don’t come true.

But maybe that’s alright. It’s fine that I’m not the best at being okay, even when you’re the best gift I ever received. As you grow in your own way, I’ll learn alongside you. I’ll learn how to celebrate every milestone. I’ll learn how to grieve without deserting hope. I’ll learn to let love mend our hearts and turn our story into something new.

I’ll let love lead my arms to carry you through…

2018 was the year they said you had autism. It was the year my dreams died, but it was also the year that you became my new dream.

I didn’t know how to love you, but I still will—and I will love you better. I’ll dream different dreams for you—better dreams. You are still the best Christmas gift, and you are still mine. I’ll keep loving you ’til forever, baby.

I’ve loved you since forever, I’ve loved you since forever, I’ve loved you since forever, and I will love you ’til forever.

Nicole Gusto is a dreamer from the Philippines. She writes YA speculative fiction inspired from the highs and lows of existing. Her adventurous stories feature broken things in repair—mostly robots, oftentimes human hearts. She’s also a speech pathologist who loves helping kids tell their own stories. Nicole has been published in One Voice Magazine and The Rebelution, and was a contributing author for Lawless, a #1 best-selling sci-fi anthology. She’d love to connect with friends online.

Instagram: @nicolegusto

Newsletter: nicolegusto.com

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Thank you for reading!

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