I realized that raising children is a lot like learning another language.  Recently I ordered some Egyptian Arabic CD’s so I could learn some of the language before going on our long-awaited trip to Egypt.  I studied, and repeated, and wondered how I would use these skills (would I ever ask someone else if they wanted something to drink?).  When I arrived in Egypt, most people were shocked that my western mind was able to grasp even a syllable of the Arabic language.   They challenged me, asked me how, asked me why, and quizzed me (‘What’s this?’ while holding up a cucumber, ‘What’s this?’ pointing to a tablecloth.  If I am on an island with an Arab, a cucumber and a tablecloth, I’ll be just fine).  My CD-learned Arabic wasn’t enough, though.  I learned enough ‘on the job’ to make airport guards smile, to get the sole attention of a salesperson, or to get a table at a restaurant, but otherwise I was sorely lacking.

I worked hard preparing for children too.  I read every book I could get a hold of, even the ones with the gory pictures of childbirth (vowing there and then to get the full epidural).  After my son,  people quizzed me on the number of ounces of formula I fed him, or what type of diapers I should be buying, how long I should let him cry at night and exactly when I would start potty-training him (according to them, potty-training started after the amniotic fluid was wiped off).  My book-learned child rearing wasn’t enough.  I learned enough ’on the job’ to make him smile between bouts of colic, to get himself and myself dressed before noon (rarely), but otherwise I was sorely lacking.

On the 31-hour trek back home, I sat near the most adorable Egyptian child.  He had sweet Ptolemic brown curls, and beautiful brown eyes.  He played peek-a-boo with me until we both tired of it somewhere over the Isle of Rhodes.  I told his mom in my halting Arabic ‘Gazeelan’ (beautiful) while pointing at her child.  Her matching brown eyes looked fondly at him and said ‘Shokran’ (thank you). 

I learned enough Arabic for that.

They say that autistic children don’t make eye contact.

That may be true. Autistic children do not make eye contact. Always.

But they do. Sometimes.

Sometimes, in a quiet moment, when I’m not expecting it, I’ll look up to find Adam looking me straight in the eye.

It’s not the same kind of eye contact my other two sons demand of me while they’re sharing every detail of the latest (or oldest) Spongebob episode. Or tattling on each other’s various sins. Or giving me the play by play of whatever game ESPN is broadcasting.

It’s in a quick, unexpected, fleeting moment that Adam will lock lasers with me.

And smile at me.

And I’ll smile at him.

And we both just know.

That for the moment, we both get it.

It won’t last long.

But I’ll take it.

Even if it’s only sometimes.