Kit Kapers

I am having experiences with Kit that are, I’m sure, the most normal little things—but they feel like nothing that I’ve ever seen or experienced before. I took him out one morning last week for a pastry (for him) and a cup of coffee (for me), and he was happy to sit in an enormous chair and occasionally walk around the coffeehouse and smile at people. After a little while, he started signing to me that he was thirsty, and then he waited patiently while I got him some milk—and by “waited patiently,” I mean “staggered around signing <thirsty>,” because for Kit that sign requires you to throw your head as far back as possible. It was a really nice time, and it’s so strange that he can now, say, pick out a doughnut for himself or enjoy watching passersby. I’m acclimated to Joey, which makes having a little boy who smiles at strangers sort of baffling. But in a good way.

Kit is almost two. He does not show any signs of autism—and you can believe that he has been closely scrutinized, not only by me but by the professionals who work with Joey. He loves trains, trucks, and the color purple. He counts and reads numerals 0–10, and has started reading and signing letters; when he sings the alphabet song, he gets stuck for a bit on W: “You, bee, double you you you you you you you you you you you . . .ex, why . . . zee!” He is very nervous of most nonfamily these days, but he warms up to most people pretty quickly. He loves to wear cowboy boots and a bucket hat, and he loves to hide and be found, or run and be chased.

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