There is something fresh about Charlotte Moore's essay-memoir, published in Italy by Corbaccio—a quality you sense from the opening pages. Let me try to name it.
George and Sam, along with their younger brother Jake to whom the book is dedicated, are the author's own sons. Moore observes them here with acuity and without sentimentality, examining their behavior in a way that captures our attention, makes us laugh, and teaches us about autism—for George and Sam are both autistic. Their younger brother serves as an essential point of comparison: a brother bound to them in lifelong solidarity, though not, as Moore makes clear, as a future babysitter.
The author is an affectionate, attentive mother and also an accomplished writer—a smart, open woman who pursues her profession, her friendships, her cultural interests with verve and passion. She has loving, present relatives and friends, a husband from whom she is separated but who still takes occasional responsibility for the children, a "fantastic" babysitter, a full-time school that works, and adequate financial resources. Her home sits in a garden that borders open meadows and woodland.
Is this enough to explain her unusual perspective? To account for the vivacity and pleasure that radiates from her pages, the serenity, almost the boldness of spirit with which she writes? And more extraordinary still is her irony: a delicate, good-natured irony that coaxes a smile in the most unexpected moments. Consider her account of the "search for autistic traits" the doctors suggested, conducted among relatives on both sides of the family. The traits she finds—well, she finds plenty.
This book, it seems to me, is the fruit of a long journey the author has made toward the complete acceptance of her sons, whom she presents as utterly distinct from one another, as unique as any human beings. She tells their story, describes their particular qualities (not always negative), explains their struggles and moments of suffering, and underscores their innocence. George and Sam are "autistic, truly and forever"—and yet also "funny, interesting, and beautiful." That is who they are, how their mother describes them, how they should appear to their friends, how they appear to all of us reading this book.
Only this acceptance allows Moore to ask herself other questions and reach another great achievement.
With a clear mind, she asks: What do I do with my life? If it is not the life I dreamed of, how can I honor my own ambitions? How do I preserve my drive to act and participate? What can I change, endure, or let go of in this life as an "autism parent" that has been assigned to me? What can I invent, and how do I manage things for my own well-being and theirs, theirs and mine?
The answers are in this book. Along with substantial information about autism and many simple, practical suggestions. There are no promises of miracle cures, but the schooling, diets, learning methods, and educational treatments that her sons have experienced with varying success are thoroughly illustrated.
George and Sam is, as its introduction rightly says, an "illuminating" book—one that can change something in each of us who reads it.
Tea Cabras, 2005
How to Help: An Excerpt from "George and Sam"
If your friend has an autistic child, I hope I'm not stating the obvious when I say you should make only promises you can keep. Don't imagine you can transform or cure the child, or unlock the prison of autism and free the beautiful soul trapped inside. You can't. Think small. Try to picture what your friend's daily life is like. Is it hard for her to go to the supermarket, especially during school holidays? (School holidays make everything harder.) Does her child suffer from sensory overload in a supermarket? Do the bright lights, the queues, the glittering aisles trigger a meltdown? If so, could you watch him at home while she shops? Or do the shopping for her? If he enjoys shopping (mine do, at the moment), but he's too big for the trolley and likely to wander off, could you come along? An extra pair of hands would be invaluable.
If you know the child well and feel confident managing him, you might offer to take him to the zoo, park, or swimming pool. This would give his mother and his neurotypical siblings a welcome break from his company. Not everyone feels up to it—but you could do the reverse and take the neurotypical ones off her hands. It's much easier for me to give George and Sam my full attention if Jake is away playing with a friend. Or you could join in on a family outing? There aren't many public places where I can manage all three boys alone, but with another adult I can go almost anywhere.
It's very hard for autism parents to find babysitters. Often both parents take turns, which isn't good for their marriage or social life. We have Ian, who is a fantastic babysitter, but many people have no one. We can't just get a teenager to come sit while our little angels sleep peacefully upstairs. It doesn't work that way. Our babysitters need to be resourceful, vigilant, and skilled—otherwise it's not safe. Could you babysit occasionally, perhaps teaming up with another friend? It's tremendously important for us to be able to get out.
Offering direct financial help is difficult, but your friend's quality of life might improve with something she can't afford: a trampoline, for instance, or a swing. Could a few friends pool resources and give a gift like that? Be bold. Don't wait to be asked, because you won't be. Your friend is proud and unlikely to ask for help, especially because she feels she can't return the favor.
Inviting an "autism family" to your home is a true act of friendship. I deeply appreciate those friends who "Sam-proof" their houses before we arrive—hiding medications and dangerous substances, checking that doors and windows are locked. You should be prepared for some chaos and damage, though you might be pleasantly surprised: some visits pass without incident. On the other hand, if you can't bear the thought of your prized narcissus bulbs being ripped up, or finding excrement on the lawn ("It wasn't me! It was a chicken!" George announced, and I was glad he could tell a lie), then come visit her instead. Break the isolation that autism can impose. Stay in touch.
Above all, try to appreciate her child. Mothers may complain about their own children, but they rarely want to hear others criticize them. Some people adopt the attitude of "you-poor-thing-it-must-be-so-difficult-for-you," and while I'm grateful for their sympathy, I respond much more warmly when someone takes an interest in George and Sam, praises them, finds them funny, interesting, and beautiful—the way I do.
(From "George and Sam" by Charlotte Moore, Corbaccio Publishers)