When it comes to dynamic duos, Batman and Robin of Gotham have nothing on Led and Jake Bradshaw of Bay Ridge, Brooklyn.

Led, 48, a professional comic book illustrator, and his son, Jake, an 11-year-old with autism, have bonded over superheroes and comic books. But flash back to nearly eight years ago, when Jake was first diagnosed — Led wondered what the future held for his son. He worried about their relationship. He knew nothing about autism but began reading everything he could and asking therapists and other professionals lots of questions.

While scrolling the internet, looking for the latest sci-fi and comic book news, he came across a reference to art therapy and its impact for children with autism. Led, who began drawing at age 3 and never stopped, would add drawing for 25 minutes every day to Jake’s routine. Colors were used to express emotions. Led would engage Jake and ask why he was happy, angry or sad.

He beamed over his son’s obsession with superheroes, reminding him of his younger self. Jake had a speech delay but Led indicated he didn’t recognize it as a sign of autism. Art, something Led was totally at ease with, could help Jake express himself, even without words. He empowered Jake to draw himself as a superhero. That’s when things really took off.

Jake Jetpulse: A superhero with autism born

By embracing Jake’s passion, while luring him into learning, they have created a series of comic/workbooks, The Adventures of Jake Jetpulse, that gives readers a glimpse into Jake’s life on the spectrum.

The villains and monsters in Jake Jetpulse comics are from Jake’s nightmares, Led said. Jake would draw them and name them. To fight off the monsters, Led made “monster repellant spray.”

“I didn’t know what I was walking into. I was just being an attentive dad,” Led said. “I’ve created the superhero universe with him. The stories come from his experience, and I draw to bring it to life.”

Little did Jake realize, he was reading and learning while gaining more confidence. His teacher at school, at the time, shared the comic and activity books with other children.

“If you’re diagnosed with autism, that’s not bad,” Jake said. “It’s OK. You’re still unique and you can do anything.”

Working on social skills at school

Jake brings his creativity and his love of writing and drawing to his classroom at AHRC New York City’s Brooklyn Blue Feather Elementary School.

If it was up to Jake, “he would sit and draw all day,” said Rose Dorcia, his teacher. He is friendly, sociable, talkative, and very inquisitive, she added. “He reads very well, with good pronunciation and he understands most of what he reads.”

Like other children on the spectrum, Jake struggles with social skills. Rose said he’s learning how to approach other children if he can join their activity in an appropriate manner. He’s also working on reading body language, she said.

Led also continues to learn, every day from Jake. By encouraging Jake to pursue his special interests, he has learned to communicate better with him.

Led’s tip for other parents of children with autism?

“Do everything you can to be the best advocate for your child,” Led said. “Establish relationships with therapists and others who work with your child. Ask them, ‘What can I do at home, so my child doesn’t forget this.’”

And most importantly, he added, “make things fun.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

AHRC New York City is a nonprofit organization that advocates for people who are neurodiverse to lead full and equitable lives. It helps more than 15,000 people annually, and calls for better education, living arrangements, prospects for work and fuller lives in the community for the neurodiverse.

EDITOR’S NOTE: City Dads Group is working with longtime partner Dove Men+Care to create “how to” videos for the grooming products company’s “Dads Care” campaign. We will be featuring the videos and scripts our members appear in. This one features Aaron Sheldon of our Columbus (Ohio) Dads Group, with a little help from his son, Harry, both shown above, talking about how to help kids with autism cope with a change in routine.

I’ve spent the past few years sharing how Harry and I explore our everyday world, and, lately, how our world has changed since Harry’s Autism diagnosis. Thanks to an amazing team of educators, intervention specialists, and therapists, we have a toolkit that has helped us through the upheavals of life, such as the COVID-19 pandemic.

One thing that’s really helped Harry during chaotic period is having a daily schedule. Sitting down and planning out our schedule together every morning has been a big help in managing the ups and downs of our new normal.

Here are the five things we schedule every day to help Harry, and I stay happy, calm, get our tasks done, and have fun:

Get up, eat breakfast, and get dressed

While we couldn’t stick to the school week schedule we had before social distancing and stay-at-home orders, starting the day with the expectation that we get up around the same time, eat breakfast, and get dressed, helps the day start a little smoother.

Do schoolwork in the morning

We’re both a little sharper, calmer and able to sit and focus earlier in the day. We can get more done with less stress if we get right to work.

Take plenty of breaks

No matter how calm and focused we are, we still need to give our minds a rest every so often. So, between assignments, and before and after video calls with Harry’s classmates and therapists, we take a few minutes to move our bodies, have a snack, or do some drawing.

Try NOT to set time limits

We try not to put time limits on tasks because sometimes it takes a little longer to eat breakfast or do your math assignment than others, and the stress of a countdown doesn’t help dads or kids.

Don’t try to do too much

The most important thing to remember when you build your daily schedule is: Make sure you don’t try to pack too many activities in. Each day will have its unique challenges, and it’s OK to step away from something if it’s not going well, and come back and try again later.

We hope that these tips will help you and a child with autism cope with changes and make your day a little easier, have fewer meltdowns, and have more fun together.

July 26, 2020, will mark the 30^th anniversary of the Americans with Disabilities Act, which prohibits discrimination based on disability. Earlier this year, my teen daughters and I watched a powerful new documentary available on Netflix called Crip Camp: A Disability Revolution. The film explains how the disability rights movement evolved across decades. Though Crip Camp was released before the recent Black Lives Matter protests, its themes have much to teach parents at this critical cultural moment.

The documentary focuses on Camp Jened, a 1971 summer camp for teens with disabilities. Many of the teens featured later become activists for disability rights. The film is narrated in part by Jim LeBrecht, who has spina bifida and attended the camp at age 15. The opening scenes show him as a child at home literally climbing up and down stairs with his hands and arms.

Extensive black-and-white camp footage from then documents how the multiracial campers enjoy each other’s company. While the “hippie” camp might not meet today’s safety standards, the campers frequently express how liberated they feel. At the camp, their bodies are not burdens, but simply part of who they are.

Lionel Je’Woodyard, an African-American counselor, notes similarities to the civil rights movement at the time: “Whatever obstacles that were in my way being a black man, the same thing was held true for individuals in wheelchairs.” Later that decade, the Black Panthers will help disability rights activists during their protests and sit-ins.

One of the camp counselors who later becomes a powerful activist is Judy Heumann. She narrates that as a child with polio, she did not feel different until a boy saw her wheelchair and asked if she was “sick.” In that moment, Heumann said she felt “sidelined,” and inclusion has been her passion ever since.

The later parts of Crip Camp show the development of the movement in the 1970s and ’80s. Scenes of a man in a wheelchair having to use dangerous city streets illustrate the need for the curb ramps and elevators that we now take for granted. Such images of architectural injustice culminate in “The Capitol Crawl,” a dramatic protest that occurred on March 12, 1990. On that day, dozens of people with disabilities abandoned their wheelchairs and used their hands and arms to drag their bodies up the many steps of the Capitol Building. The Americans with Disabilities Act finally became law a few months later. though the struggle for full disability rights continues.

Inspiration is not the same as action

While Crip Camp is no doubt inspiring, a recent memoir by Keah Brown, an African-American writer in her late 20s who has cerebral palsy, reminds readers that inspiration can be tricky. Regarding people with disabilities, she declares in The Pretty One (2019):  “We are human beings first, who shouldn’t have to be inspirations for our lives to matter. … I wasn’t given what I hoped and asked for because of my disability or in spite of it; I received all of it because of the person I am inside my body.”

From the start, Brown’s book purposefully emphasizes all that she is apart from her disability. She begins: “Hey, friends! My name is Keah and I’m cute as hell. I love popular culture, music, cheesecake, cheeseburgers, and pizza.” Such a playful attitude created Brown’s viral hashtag #DisabledAndCute in 2017.

While she is happy to broaden the representation of people with disabilities in popular culture, Brown warns against “able-ism” in the form of pity: “Disabled bodies are often used to make the able-bodied feel better about their own bodies; we are a reminder that ‘it could be worse.’” Instead, “as a disabled person, what I need in place of pity, which does absolutely nothing to advance the community, are my rights, respect, and opportunity.”

The themes of respect and exhaustion permeate Brown’s vantage at the intersection of race and disability: “What black people need is respect in every space. There is an exhausting process of entering public spaces never knowing how your blackness will be perceived by the people who are not black — and what the cost of that perception may be.” Much like the Capitol Crawl scenes illustrate in Crip Camp, Brown notes that “so much of disability is adaptation and discovering the sorts of tips, tricks, and work-arounds necessary to survive in public and private spaces.”

Foster inclusion, respect in your children

Significantly, both Judy Heumann and Keah Brown describe crucial moments from their childhoods when another child marked them as “different” and thus “less than.” Heumann was asked if she was sick, while Brown explains that in middle school a boy mimicked her limp, which led her to self-hatred, disordered eating and even suicidal thoughts. Granted, children often say or do things impulsively, but as Brown notes, “The things we do even in jest and naivete matter; they can change lives.”

To foster a child’s ability to respect others, parents should convey early and often that it’s OK to notice and talk about differences among people. Ideally, questions can be addressed in age-appropriate ways even before children encounter people who look different from them, whether due to disability, skin tone, cultural garb or any other reason.

While it can sometimes make parents nervous, noticing difference is actually quite natural for young children. If children are shushed or shamed when they ask questions, the message received is that differences are bad. (When my daughters were young, I benefited from reading Hate Hurts: How Children Learn and Unlearn Prejudice.)

As children get older, try to find ways they might increase their empathy. Try volunteering opportunities, social activities or analysis of popular culture. Some of these strategies might feel uncomfortable, but as Brown declares: “I believe that being uncomfortable is important in order for us to grow.”

(Author’s note: Crip Camp on Netflix is rated R for some language about sexuality but is very educational for teens when watched with a parent.)

Photo: ©  Minerva Studio / Adobe Stock.

He soars through Central Park, his flight path twisting and turning to the delight of passersby, his satin cape shimmering and  red hair ablaze in the early afternoon sun.

My son, Liam, and I sometimes get cooped up at home for far too long. Liam is on the spectrum for autism, and although he’ll have a typical childhood and go to typical schools, it will be because he was diagnosed early and received the care and therapy he needs. Four weekdays out of five, he either has therapists visit in the afternoon or must be taken to an appointment. Another therapist spends time with him at his pre-school every morning.

In short, my son puts in a lot of work every week. His only afternoon off is Wednesday so we always try to make the most of it. Liam’s favorite thing to do is to run, to fly, and Central Park is the best place in the world for that.

His magical world in Central Park

Our route through the park is long and winding. We usually enter at Columbus Circle, head east to the Central Park Zoo, and then turn north. We will go past the sailboats of Kerbs Boathouse, the Alice in Wonderland sculpture, all the way up to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Then we cut across the park to Belvedere Castle, and wind our way through the wooded pathways to the Bethesda Fountain. From there, we go to the bandshell, down the promenade, and hook right past the Carousel and baseball diamonds, to Heckscher Playground. There, Liam will run and play for an hour or so before we head back home.

Liam runs ahead of me the entire time, through his magical world of Central Park.

There’s a man who regularly plays the fiddle by the Heckscher Playground. He knows Liam by name, although he always calls him Batman, or Flash, or whichever identity he has chosen that day. Liam squeals in response, and the fiddler plays music for him to dance to.

My son’s imagination saves the day

Autism has not affected my son’s mental or cognitive faculties. He is as sharp as a tack, remembers everything and misses nothing. But one issue he had was with imaginative play. He was prone to lying on the floor, simply rolling a car or train back and forth in front of his eyes, fixated on its wheels, unwilling to expand his world out from his toy vehicle.

One of Liam’s therapists, Diane, found the key to coaxing him away from this laser focus on toy cars and trains. He would always get very excited when he heard a garbage truck outside, and would run to the window to see it. One morning, Diane pointed out the sanitation workers loading the truck. Liam simply had not registered them. He would only see the vehicles, not the people inside them.

This was partly our fault. His favorite television program was Thomas the Tank Engine, and he would watch some of Disney’s Cars every day. Both shows featured anthropomorphic vehicles and little to no human interaction. My wife and I had been unintentionally reinforcing his tendency to lock in on vehicles and ignore the humans operating them.

I’d been buying superhero toys and clothes for Liam since he first arrived. I make no apologies for being an unabashed nerd. It’s a big part of who I am. But when faced with the question of how to help Liam incorporate people into his play routines, and to help him branch out into role-playing and other types of imaginative play, I found the answer in superheroes.

Superheroes are big and bold, bursting with color, and impossible to ignore. Many of the toys come as vehicles and playsets. Now he would be required to deal with human characters when he played with vehicles. Capes, masks, accessories and clothing were easy to find, and encouraged imaginative roleplay.

Superheroes drew my son into more typical and varied realms of play. Once he saw how a cape flew out behind him when he ran, he became hooked. Now he would not only run, he would fly. His imagination would kick into overdrive.

He was no longer Liam, he was a superhero.

Watching people react to Liam as he dashes by has become one of my greatest pleasures. He actually lights people up. They smile. They laugh. They will try to take a picture of him, but he’s too fast. Their cameras only catch a brightly colored blur streaking away from them, but his picture stays in their mind, like the image of the sun does after you glance at it.

Walking next to my son is like walking next to the sun.

A dynamic duo

Liam isn’t the only one to dress up, of course. I’m all too eager to don a super suit as I follow him through Central Park. Liam chooses which superhero he wants to be, and then picks one for me. The end result is I add an extra kick to the sunny impact he has on people. Those folks already smiling about the pint-sized Batman who just ran past tend to break into even wider grins when they see an enormous Robin bringing up the rear with the stroller.

Dressing up as a superhero with my son has unintentionally practical benefits, too. Liam is more difficult to lose in a crowd, being an easily spotted explosion of color and energy in playgrounds swarming with kids. Conversely, my costume makes it easy for him to find me. Without planning it, our superhero outfits have become safety features, ensuring that we will never lose each other.

The superhero outfits, surprisingly, have also made me more approachable. Like a lot of dads on a playground full of moms, I’ve felt out of place at times, like an intruder. Granted, this feeling subsides (mostly because it isn’t really true) but that sense that I’m unwelcome, that I’m viewed with suspicion because I’m a man, comes back from time to time.

That all goes away when you’re wearing a Green Lantern outfit and your little Superman is directing you where to go to stop the next fiendish threat to the planet. It’s difficult to be perceived as a threat to anyone when you’re saving the world. You are immediately considered a safe space by all, and parents and children alike will come over and talk to you.

Making friends as a grown-up can be unnecessarily difficult, and a superhero shirt can circumvent that.When you’re focusing on what’s fun for your kid, you’re not worried about how others might be seeing you, and that’s the key to improving playground time for your child and you.

It’s seems weirdly ironic to not worry about how others see you when you’re wearing a Batman mask, but there it is. Superhero outfits can make you less self conscious while simultaneously making you more conspicuous. Funny, that.

So while I originally intended for superheroes to help Liam work through his issues, they’ve also ended up helping me with mine. But the secret here is not the costume but the time we’re spending together. Superheroes may be the conduit for that, and they can be switched out for anything else. Use whatever you are into — sports, music, bottle caps — as a starting point to find what your child really likes and how you can encourage him or her. That’s kind of a big part of what parenting is all about.

The point is, you don’t need to use superheroes, and you don’t need to be in Central Park. You can do this anywhere, with anything.

From Dynamic Duo to Justice League

It’s time for the play-date now. Liam’s preschool friends frequent Central Park as well, and we meet either on the Great Lawn or one of the playgrounds most every Wednesday. It’s a recent development, but a welcome one. The other kids all make sure to let me know they want capes, too. No problem. We have enough.

So we’ve gone from a Dynamic Duo to a full-on Justice League. Batman and Captain America team up with Wonder Woman and Paw Patrol Boy, or whomever else the children dream up. Now, whenever you visit Central Park on Wednesdays, you must keep an eye out for lots of low flying superheroes.

A little over a year ago, Liam was still barely speaking. He still had a tendency to withdraw into himself, and was slow to socialize with other children. To see him now, leading the Avengers in a charge across the Great Lawn seems nothing short of miraculous. Which is the kind of thing superheroes do, I suppose.

He soars through Central Park, his flight path twisting and turning to the delight of passersby, his satin cape shimmering, and the golden late afternoon sun setting his red hair ablaze, like a joyful fire.

My heart burns there, too.

“You will travel far, my little Kal-El, but we will never leave you, even in the face of our death. The richness of our lives shall be yours. All that I have, all that I’ve learned, everything I feel, all this and more, I bequeath you, my son. You will carry me inside you, all the days of your life.

You will make my strength your own, and see my life through your eyes, as your life will be seen through mine.” ~ Marlon Brando/Jor-El in Superman: the Movie

While waiting in line at Trader Joe’s in Manhattan, I overheard a conversation behind me. Some guy was complaining about his sister’s kid, who has autistic.

He didn’t believe in that crap, he said, because that whole autism thing is just a politically correct way of saying her kid’s a brat, and it’s probably because his sister is too lazy a parent to give him the beating that would straighten him out.

That’s when the young man at the front of the line sent me to a cash register, so I didn’t get a chance to respond. But this guy’s statement has been bugging me ever since so I’ll take the time to deal with it now.

Our son is on the autism spectrum. We have it easy because he’s very high functioning. He’s only mildly affected: his cognitive/mental and physical attributes are all typical, but he does have trouble with social and emotional cues as so many autistic children do.

We’re also lucky we live in New York and our state cares about its citizens, so they’re getting us lots of help. We have therapists visit in the weekday mornings, and he goes to a class to help him every weekday afternoon.

Having said that, arranging all this was a nightmare. It took my wife and I acting as a team to make it happen. It wasn’t a smooth process at all. When therapists visit, that’s not time off for us either. We’re involved in what’s going on there as well.

When Liam goes to his classes, that leaves me a little time to take care of my day-to-day life stuff: cleaning, running errands, doing assignments, and prepping dinner, although normally I just want to take a nap. But this is the time to get the necessities taken care of because everything else is all Liam, all the time.

And again, I’m saying this realizing that we’re very lucky parents.

All of our hard work is paying off. Liam is doing great. He’s making huge progress and will enjoy the same childhood and schooling as a typical child because he was diagnosed early enough. Not to mention my wife, Robin, and I sacrificed a hell of a lot and worked our asses off to help get him where he is.

And no, autism isn’t caused by vaccines. Do not listen to Jenny McCarthy for medical advice.

No, autistic children aren’t brats. No, their parents aren’t lazy. Parent shaming is never cool, especially if you don’t have the first idea of what you’re talking about. Writing off an autistic child, especially one that is part of your family, as “just a brat,” and your sister as a “lazy parent” is crass and pointedly cruel at best.

The callous ignorance of this guy’s statements is astounding. And complaining something is “politically correct” is just code for saying you don’t want to treat others respectfully, anyway. So what I got from this dude was that his nephew is a brat, his sister is a crappy parent, he has no idea what autism is or what it means, and autism is just some big cover-up meant to force him into acting respectfully toward others when he doesn’t want to. Everything about his statements was insulting. He was very lucky I was called away just at that moment.

Because even after taking lots of time to think this through, how to delicately and intelligently put my response to his asinine comments, I’d still go with my first impulse. That would be:

“If you ever say to my face that my son needs a beating to straighten him out, I will apply your own logical fallacy back unto you, and break your damn jaw.”

Just so you know the context in case I ever DO say that.

Editor’s Note: A cleft lip, with or without cleft palate, is the fourth most common birth defect in the United States, affecting one in 700 babies a year. In this guest post, Roberto Santiago writes about his inner turmoil reckoning his daughter’s quest to look “normal.”

It’s a weird thing when your 4-year-old gets a nose job.

Before you get upset, I’m not a pageant dad. This was a medically necessary nose job related to my daughter, Lou, being born with a cleft lip and palate.

Since the day she was born, our surgeon has repeated the phrase “normal by five” several hundred times. That phrase makes me uneasy. In my years working with people with disabilities, mostly as a sign language interpreter, I’ve come to distrust the term “normal.”

To many in disability and mental health communities, the word is oppressive. “Normal” creates a caste where a non-disabled person falsely assumes a superior position. The disabled person feels expected to aspire to normality, a state they may not be able to, or may be disinterested in reaching. “Normal” gives a statistical concept an inappropriate emotional connotation. I don’t want that burden placed on my little girl.

For Lou, we knew being “normal” would require three or four surgeries on her cleft lip and palate before she entered kindergarten. The latest one would be a lengthening of the columna, the external fleshy bit of the nose that divides the nostrils that her cleft caused to be very short and unable to grow. This gave her a vaguely cat-like look with nostrils more like little slits than round holes. It also caused folds inside the nostrils to easily clog.

Her recovery from that surgery took three weeks, two more than expected. She experienced discomfort rather than much outright pain during that time. The exception came when we had to clean the constant excretions and dried goop from her recovering nose. And at those times, the pain was not limited to her face.

“I hate how my nose looks!” she screamed. “I hate how it looks when it’s bloody. It looks terrible. I hate it. It looks gross and yucky and ugly. I wish I didn’t have a nose. I just look at my face and I wish I didn’t have any nose. Until today I just hate having a nose.”

This was my biggest fear before the surgery. I feared she’d hate her new look and want her old cat nose back.

My wife tried to reason with her, but Lou just kept yelling. Finally, I showed her a picture of Voldemort from the Harry Potter movies.

“See honey, this guy doesn’t have a nose. Is that what you want?” I asked.

“Oh. My. God,” she said.

She finally stopped protesting.

Still, the goop, the discomfort, the blood – none of that is what lingers with me. It’s how she looks.

When she was a baby we would speculate on who she would favor when she got older. She has my coloring, and she has her grandmother’s eyes, and we knew that her nose would be her own. It wouldn’t look like either of us because it was going to be created on an operating table. We knew we’d spend five years with one version of her face, and then it would change.

She looks like a different kid today. But she also still looks the same. This isn’t a Jennifer Grey situation here. The observation I keep coming back to is the one that makes me feel guilty for thinking it. She now looks “normal.”

Sure, the goal of the procedure was normal function, but the side effect was a “normal” look. I know I shouldn’t be using “normal.” I should use “typical” or some other term. But “normal” is the one that keeps coming to mind.

And I feel guilty about that.

I feel guilty about how relieved I am.

I feel guilty because the outcome for my daughter isn’t the outcome every cleft kid has.

We grow up being told looks don’t matter even while our peer interactions and media messages impress upon us that they do. Maybe my guilt is really just disappointment in myself. Disappointment that I’m shallow, that my daughter’s looks hold importance to me.

Lou will likely always have visible scars from her cleft lip surgeries. But each time she goes in she ends up looking more like a typical kid, and less like the baby we nicknamed Zoidberg after the cartoon lobster-man on Futurama. I’m happy to think she’ll be able to avoid being emotionally destroyed by her peers at school. I’m happy her social life won’t be hindered by deformity. (She’ll only have to face the usual horrible social pressures! Yay!)

It shouldn’t matter how she looks, especially not to me. That’s the message. That’s the ideal. But it does matter because I know how the world really works. So I’m conflicted over how her new face makes me feel. Because it’s a weird thing when your 4-year-old gets a nose job.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Roberto Santiago could never decide on a job so he endeavors to have all of them. He is a writer, teacher, sign language interpreter, rugby referee and stay-at-home dad. He writes about the intersections of family, sports and culture at An Interdisciplinary Life. 

Editor’s Note: City Dads Group is proud to occasionally feature writing from members of The Handsome Father, a support community that helps connect, prepare and inspire gay fathers. In this inspirational piece, Craig Peterson writes about his special-needs son, Andrew.

From the day I met my adopted son Andrew at age 5, he liked to walk in front. He wanted to lead.

Meanwhile, my two younger sons were in no hurry. They liked to walk hand-in-hand with their new father and didn’t want to share me with anyone – including their older brother. But Andrew didn’t mind. He’d be off on his own and out of sight, if I didn’t keep an eye on him.

He had so much energy – and was always smiling, since he hadn’t learned to use words.

Although Andrew’s brain damage from Fetal Alcohol Syndrome left him clumsy and afraid to ride a bike, I persuaded him at age 9 to run a 3K race with me.

“Stay with me. Don’t stop.” And with constant encouragement, he did just that for the entire 1.8-mile course. I wasn’t surprised. Pleasing others came naturally.

Two years later, on the same 3K course, my son ran by my side without me saying a word. I saw his potential and told him to run ahead – leaving me behind.

He had found his niche.

Yet in middle school, the cross-country coach was convinced that my sixth grader wouldn’t be able to follow directions. Andrew showed him, becoming the second fastest runner on a team that included seventh and eighth graders.

For the next five years, he and I spent countless weekend hours working on his running form. Many early mornings found the two of us at the track near our home with him completing intervals and me recording his times.

He never complained. Not once.

By his senior year, my son Andrew showed everyone once again. He became the first student-athlete in his school to earn four varsity letters in the same sport – even as many people still focused on those things he would never be able to do because of his intellectual disability.

Yet he didn’t rest on his laurels.

Through his decade of involvement in Special Olympics, he raised the bar for every participant. At the 2014 USA Games in Princeton, N.J., he dominated the distance events – earning three gold medals. He also achieved three personal bests over four days of competition, including a very impressive 4:47 in the 1500.

Andrew set a new goal in 2014 – to be on the cover of Runner’s World magazine. From 2,000 entries he was one of five male finalists. And although he didn’t win, his picture appeared five times in the December 2014 issue. He was a finalist again in 2015, gaining the most votes in Reader’s Choice category, though the cover still eluded him.

Never one to be discouraged, Andrew found another outlet to share his gifts. He confidently took his message of respect and inclusion to 60 Indiana high schools – eventually addressing 60,000 students with his inspiring message.

Not one show of nerves, as he spoke from memory for 15 minutes.

Craig Peterson became the first openly gay man to adopt through the Indiana foster care system in 1998. He is finishing a memoir on raising his six children with special needs to be called Adopting Faith: A Father’s Unconditional Love, and maintains a blog by the same name. A version of this article first appeared on The Handsome Father.

With special guest (expectant dad), Henrik Lundqvist from the NY Rangers

Dads matter – not just on Father’s Day, but everyday in the lives of their children.  About two years ago, Mayor Michael Bloomberg established the Mayor’s Fatherhood Initiative (NYC Dads) to “strengthen New York City’s families by helping dads take a more active role in their children’s lives.”  The goals of the initiative include making all city agencies as “father friendly” as possible and championing the (same) message (that so many dad bloggers, dad groups, and journalists are) that DADS MATTER.

“The (2nd annual) NYC Dads Matter Award recognizes fathers from throughout the city who have overcome challenges to become positive and consistent influences in the lives of their children.”  Last night, I had the honor to go to Gracie Mansion to attend the powerful award ceremony for the ten “NYC Dads Matter” award recipients. We were excited and rooting on one of our NYC Dads Group members, Christopher Astacio, who was one of the deserving recipients.  Despite a constant battle with stomach cancer, Chris is a constant, active, and engaged dad to his two children.  His youngest daughter, Cristina, has autism and Chris is dedicated to fundraising and supporting research while he works full time as a teacher & as well as pursuing his Masters degree.  All of the other deserving award recipients had similar stories of overcoming significant challenges to be the best dad they can be.  Only ten dads are selected, but Alan Farrell, the NYC Fatherhood Services Coordinator, mentioned that 175 dads were nominated for the prestigious award this year.

Even though Mayor Bloomberg was not on hand (he was downtown with President Obama at the World Trade Center Memorial), Deputy Mayor Linda Gibbs, Alan Farrell, & special guest (expectant dad) Henrik Lundqvist, of the New York Rangers, made the entire evening feel very special.  For me, it was a wonderful feeling to be attending an event where fatherhood was front and center and the focus of the conversation.  I wanted to share some pictures to best capture the essence of the event.  Hat tip to Mayor Bloomberg, Alan Farrell, and the rest of their team for what they have accomplished in two short years & for their future plans on fatherhood in New York City.

NYC Dads Group member, Chris Astacio with NYC Fatherhood Service Coordinator, Alan Farell, Deputy Mayor Linda Gibbs, & Henrik Lundqvist

Enjoying the Grounds of Gracie Mansion

With Proud dad Chris Astacio & his daughter Cristina

As she emerged into this world, wailing her little lungs out, Cristina Jailyn gazed upon my anxiety-riddled face with those piercing green eyes of hers.  An overwhelming sense of tranquility surpassed the irritating sounds of those monitors in the delivery room as I said “hi” to my daughter for the very first time.

As if she already knew who I was, the sound of my voice eased her fears as I found my finger in the grasps of her tiny little hand. I gently kissed her forehead and whispered the same words I uttered onto my son when he was born: “You are my world and I will love you for the rest of your existence.”

Staring into her eyes, I knew she was perfection wrapped up in a little blanket, holding my heart in one hand while holding the world in the other.

Nearly a year later, I had come to miss those eyes of hers since she would seldom look directly at me. Mere hugs were nearly impossible as she would frantically attempt to evade my embrace because it seemed like it caused her immense pain.  I attributed this strange behavior to my prolonged absence because of my exhausting battle with stomach cancer. I thought that maybe I needed to earn my daughter’s love once again.

However, my wife would endure the same heartbreaking avoidance behavior.  Cristina would never respond to her name or call us by our names. Her vocabulary was limited to only five words which would cause her to resort to grunting and yelling. She could not point to what she desired, forcing us to play the “guessing game,” and her tantrums became increasing exaggerated.

Doctors initially thought that maybe she had a hearing deficit resulting from frequent ear infections but upon further in depth examination, her hearing appeared to be normal. We were completely perplexed and exhausted, not understanding what was happening to our daughter. Her behavior worsened, becoming aggressive and violent. I was losing my little girl.

Finally, on a normal work day in my school, I was just about to lock my classroom door as my cell phone started to ring. I ignored the call since it was during school hours but moments later, a text came through from my wife. It read, “Cristina is Autistic.”

Autistic.

That word echoed through my brain, ricocheting up and down my spine causing a wave of weakness. I slowly kneeled onto the floor and called my wife. On the other end of the line, I heard the voice of a mother overcome with sadness muster the strength to reiterate that our daughter is autistic.

That night I held my daughter and kissed her forehead as she slept in my arms. I whispered in her ears, “I know my little Cristina is in there, somewhere.” I, along with my wife, vowed to get her the best help possible.

Cristina now receives six days of intensive two- to three-hour therapy sessions by four separate therapists. Nearly 3 years old, Cristina now has a vocabulary of 50 words, can count to 10, gives hugs and kisses, and just recently learned her name as well as ours. We are working on two- to three-word phrases which has been stressful but rewarding.

Last night, I tucked my daughter into her bed and told her “goodnight, honey” to which she replied “good night, Papi.” I went to my wife with tears in my eyes and told her, “She’s beginning to understand.”

Although autistic, my Cristina is still perfection, holding my heart in one hand and her bright future in the other.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Christopher Astacio is an educator and father of two.

Photo: Joel Overbeck on Unsplash

Powerful!  Moving!  Hair standing up on the back of your neck!  Choked up! Words I would use to describe how I felt when watching this video clip from Autistic Like Me: A Father’s Perspective!

April is Autistic awareness month and after combing through some very emotional and heartfelt projects surrounding Autism, one initiative struck a special chord with us – Autistic Like Me: A Father’s Perspective.  Big thanks to NY Metro Parents to bringing the project to our attention.  Below is a powerful note from the Director’s Message on their website: