Brothers

“I wonder what it would be like to have a big brother?” my five-year-old son, Andy asked me. We were taking one of our walks while his older brother, Matthew, was at speech therapy. He wasn’t being reflective. He was being realistic.

Andy had become the big brother during an outing to the park two years before, when he was three and Matthew five.

A boy whom Andy had befriended that day approached Matthew. Matthew called the boy a rock head. Incensed, the boy confronted Andy.

“Your brother called me a rock head!” he protested.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Andy replied reassuringly, “That’s just his natural way of talking. My mom has some juice. Would you like some?”

Will it always be this easy?

. A little over a year after the rock head incident, John was born.

It is amazing how soon you can tell that your baby is developmentally healthy after having had one who is not. It was clear to Peter and me that John was making the right connections from an early age. Once he started to talk at age two, I tested him for echolalia.

“What did you do at school today, John? Did you read a book?”

“Yes, and I played in the sand. How are you, Mom?”

“Fine! Did you have a snack?”

“I had goldfish and juice. I love you, mommy.”

Matthew at the same age would have answered – “Read a book” and “Have a Snack,” while lining up his blocks, inspecting the wheels on his toy truck, or watching water go down a drain, glancing at me for just a second.

I rejoiced when John’s eyes met mine while we talked, and watched nervously for any sign of the repetitive and ritualistic behaviors we remembered from Matthew’s early days.

John was a blessing to Andy, whose first friend was growing more and more remote. By six and a half, Matthew, more than ever, preferred playing alone, either lining up his toys and, making towers with his blocks until they toppled over, again and again, and swinging gleefully on the backyard swing. He picked up a disturbing new quirk during Johns’ first year of running to his side when he was crying, and jumping up and down with excitement and glee. He did the same with Andy when he was distressed or angry, keeping the entire family on edge.

As the years went by, Andy thrived in spite of his brother’s increasing quirkiness. In one family movie, five-year-old Andy is reading haltingly to John in a big white rocking chair. Matthew is sitting on the floor behind the rocking chair, watching the shadows left by the chair as it rocks to and fro, his hands flapping with the movement.

John was six and a half years younger than Matthew, and it would be a while before he would notice Matthew’s unusual behavior. While Andy was aware of it, the weight of Matthew’s disability didn’t appear to bother him… until the first grade.

It was the first year that Matthew and Andy were at the same school. In September, I signed up to drive for Andy’s field trip to the Jelly Belly Factory. I was driving along blissfully in my minivan full of six year olds when I heard whispering and snickering from the back seat. Andy was behind me – I could see his hazel eyes in the rear view mirror, glistening with tears, and his chin trembling. He was not easily shaken.

“What’s going on, guys?” I asked.

“Andy’s brother is a retard!” a brave soul blurted out, and laughter erupted. Who in the hell did they think was driving the car?

With a very large lump in my throat and blood rushing to my face, I thought it would be wise to pull over and straighten things out.

The car fell deadly silent as I pulled over. When I turned around, Andy was looking down at his knees, mortified while the boys struggled to wipe off their smirks and look somber. I had no idea what to say, so decided not to try to stick up for Matthew just yet.

“Should I turn the car around and take everyone to the principal’s office?” I threatened.

“Joey said it!” three boys said at once. Andy glanced up at me with a slight smile.

My look of disapproval was punishment enough, and we continued on our way.

The thirty-five minute drive was very quiet. I turned on music and chattered like an idiot the whole time. When we got to the jellybean factory, all the boys, except for Andy, bolted to join the rest of the class. I told the teacher I needed a minute with Andy.

What should I say? But Andy took the initiative.

“Mom, we’re going to have to think of a way to explain things for the next time this happens,” he said earnestly. I hugged him tight, and his small hand patted my back- my sweet boy comforting me in return. But all of a sudden I felt the weight of what was to come, the comments, the teasing, the brave explanations and the heartache. I felt such tremendous sadness for Andy, and for myself.

Later that day, I relayed the events of the day to my father, who stopped by as he often did. Andy came running to the sound of his grandpa’s booming voice.

“Your mom was telling me it was a tough day, but you look pretty happy to me!” he said smiling.

Andy beamed. “Did you come here just to see me?” he asked.

“Yep. Now go jump in my car before your brothers find out,” and off they went for an ice cream cone, Matthew’s big brother and his Grandpa.

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