Welcome! In case you’re new here, I typically write about my life as a writer and mother of two sons, one of whom is diagnosed with non-speaking autism. You might’ve stumbled across my newsletter after reading my five cave poems via The Rabbit Room. This month’s newsletter is about my love of libraries—and my years-long quest to share that love with my children.
The year I was ten, I lived in a small town adjacent to an Old Order Amish community. My father, then a full-time minister in the United Methodist Church, was the senior pastor of not one, but two Methodist churches in said town. We’d come from a mid-sized city with a sprawling two-story library. I was stunned to discover that my new library offered only a couple of shelves for children. This is it? I thought. Still, I lowered myself to the floor and examined the ratty paperbacks. I found a middle-grade novel about a dollhouse coming to life. I tucked it under my armpit.
I give my mother great credit for taking me to the library every two weeks, without fail, for most of my childhood. The library was a great resource for us, as a single-income homeschooling family. As the hot and halcyon days of the American South stretched on, sans wi-fi, I learned to delight in simple pleasures. The perfect day, no contest, was snatching up an unread volume of The Saddle Club at the library, then heading to McDonald’s for 29-cent hamburger night. I’ll forever chase that feeling.
It’s been a years-long effort to get my own sons excited about going to the library. My non-speaking autistic son has a hard time integrating into hushed environments like libraries and churches. Milo was a toddler the first time I took him to a library story time. At that time, I knew Milo struggled in social situations—but I didn’t have a name for it. I watched as other moms sank into plush chairs, sending their toddlers to the rug in the center of the room. The librarian held up a picture book and began to read. The toddlers sat motionless, mouths agape. I encouraged Milo to join the group. Instead of finding a chair, I sat at the edge of the rug—the only adult on the floor.
The librarian pointed to a colorful butterfly, whose wings spanned two pages.
“She turned into…” the librarian paused.
“…A butterfly!” a girl in pigtails called out.
Milo began to sob. I pulled him into my lap and bounced him up and down.
“There are many beautiful colors in this butterfly’s wings,” the librarian cooed. “Can anybody name one?”
A three-year-old boy raised his hand. “I see purple!”
Milo screamed. I scooted off the rug and onto cold tile.
A child of about eighteen months pointed. “I see lallo!” The child’s mother grimaced. “You mean yellow, darling.”
Milo’s next scream was shrill. The librarian glanced in our direction. I stood up and paced the back of the room. “Milo,” I whispered, pointing toward the book. “Look at the butterfly. Look at her pretty wings.” He flailed—plainly furious to be in this place. As I struggled to hold his writhing body against my chest, hot tears spilled onto my cheeks. Silently, I admitted defeat and we ducked out of the building. In the parking lot, a sudden gust of wind hit our tear-stained faces. Milo let out a gasp, squinting his eyes as the blast enveloped his body. At long last, a smile stretched across his face.
At home, we continued to read picture books. Milo’s favorite was Llama Llama Red Pajama. When we came to the wordless page featuring a harried Mama Llama, I added my own dialogue: “Ahhhhhhhhh!”
One day, I forgot the “Ahhhhhhhhh.” My bleary eyes rested on the wide-eyed images of Mama Llama when, suddenly, I heard a small voice.
“Ahhhhhhhhhh!”
I shot up, heart racing. I turned to my husband. “Did you just say Ahhhhhhhhh?”
Wide-eyed, he shook his head no.
I stared at Milo. He giggled.
We cried.
Every time I pulled out Llama Llama Red Pajama after that night—I paused at that page, waiting to hear my son’s voice again. The silence that followed, every single time, broke places within me I didn’t know existed. I never heard Milo say “Ahhhhhhhhh” at that place in the book again. In time, I found the courage to resume the dialogue in my own voice. Still, I always paused for just a moment—hoping.
Milo will be thirteen years old this fall. In the years since Llama Llama Red Pajama, we added a second child to our family. We started homeschooling. Read-alouds are still an important part of our day—even with one son starting seventh grade and another starting fifth. Last spring, we finished the entire Chronicles of Narnia series. The year prior, we read through The Borrowers—all five volumes. Along the way, we’ve read one-offs, too: some Lamplighter books, a Harry Potter here and there, Newbery Honor books, history textbooks, science textbooks, and the list goes on.
Some call it a waste of time. Isn’t it better for an autistic child to learn life skills? After all, there is little hope that my child will earn a college degree or even a regular high school diploma. First off, let me assure you that we do practice life skills—personal hygiene, meal preparation, light household chores, and similar activities—on a daily, if not hourly, basis. Still: isn’t listening a life skill? Isn’t empathizing a life skill? Read-alouds and audiobooks present children of all abilities with opportunities to practice listening and empathizing. It’s nothing to sneeze at.
Linus, my rising fifth grader, loves going to the library. He piles up Choose Your Own Adventure books, graphic novels, and Pokémon DVDs—then checks them out with his very own library card. I have a different method for finding materials for my autistic son. I gather board books, picture books, and graphic novels that I hope will interest Milo. I spread them out on a table and let him choose by touch. His selections often surprise me. Last week, for example, I spotted an Usborne Touchy-Feely Book. I placed it atop my stack for Milo. I was certain he’d love rubbing his fingers against the textures. However, after touching the book briefly, he pushed it aside—and, instead, snatched up a Mickey Mouse graphic novel I’d been saving for Linus. “Do you like that?” I asked. He turned the pages, ten at a time, staring at each familiar character with grave concentration.
It took me a long time to learn this lesson, but I now let my children borrow almost anything they want from the library. I’m still concerned about graphic content (i.e., books with themes that are too mature for their current stages of development), but I’ve discarded most of my fears around “twaddle” and “living books.” After all, my own love of twaddle—series like The Saddle Club or The Baby-Sitters Club—led me, later on, to classics such as Jane Eyre, Little Women, Anne of Green Gables, and many others.
Also: We make time to browse movies. (My rule is: first books, then movies.) Last week, we borrowed a Studio Ponoc film for family movie night. Normally, I would’ve paid four or five dollars to stream it—thanks to the library, we borrowed the film for free. In fact, I now cringe every time we pay to stream a movie. Our library is so well-stocked that I’ve never had any trouble finding a movie I wanted to watch. In addition, our library carries dozens—if not hundreds—of popular TV series, including kids’ series. (For example, Linus borrowed Pokémon: Indigo League last week. When we inquired about a missing season, the librarian immediately ordered that season!)
We’ve had our share of troubles at the library—once, a librarian sternly reprimanded me after Milo slipped off his shoes for a few seconds. (Later, my mother wrote a scathing letter regarding said incident, which set in motion autism-related training for all library staff.) Still, we keep trying. I hold my breath, pretending I didn’t hear someone ask what is “wrong with that boy.” I keep my head down. People insist I’m not confrontational enough. “I would’ve—” they say. Instead, I pile our library books next to the fireplace. I put on a kettle for tea. I fill a plate with gluten-free cookies. Then, I clear my throat and begin: “In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit…”
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Thank you for sharing these thoughts, Heather! I work in public libraries (particularly in youth literacy) and have been encouraged by the influx of sensory-friendly and adaptable programming and materials. Thank you for not shying away from these spaces, but encouraging their development and adaptability.
Reading to Milo all these years is such a beautiful act of love. You may never know the gift you have given him in sharing these stories, though I hope one day you will see its fruit. Thank you for writing so honestly.