28 Pictures of Autism

I tell Charlie to look at the camera and smile. “Say cheese!” And this is where our shared stress begins.

It helps to name the person or reason for whom he’s taking the picture. “Smile for so-and-so”, or “Show everyone how happy you are for Christmas!”

He flaps his hands, excited. Then thrusts one hand in the air and holds the pose for a moment as he grins toward the sky, beaming in a moment where he’s focused on the name or the occasion we’ve just planted in his mind.

Our tone gets more stern. “Look at the camera and smile!”

He takes a moment of repose. Unsure of what exactly to do. He mutters to himself, “Smile and say cheese”. But he doesn’t smile. He doesn’t look at the camera. He’s confused. He resumes what he was doing before we asked for the picture.

“Charlie,” we demand, “Smile and look at the camera!”

Charlie runs away.

We give chase. Blocking his exit with our bodies. He plows into us. He starts sobbing. “No thanks” He whimpers. He’s scared.

“Just take the picture!”

But we have taken the pictures. 27 of them since this all started a moment ago. Pictures of him smiling and looking away. Smiling and flapping his hands. Looking at the camera and not smiling. And at least 10 when he was grinning toward the sky hand outstretched as he thought about the person or occasion for whom he was told to express his happiness toward.

But none of these meet the requirements of a “normal” picture: a still child, smiling at the camera, eyes focused directly toward the lens, hands at sides or waving or outstretched as though he’s giving the world a big hug.

Posting his picture online, printing it on the holiday card, or just sending it via email is going to be judged based upon the very intricate system of “likes” and “shares” and mentions that the editorial we use to score what we value in people’s presentation of themselves. Nobody will “like” a picture of him grinning at nothing or flapping his hands. They’ll wonder why we didn’t take a better picture.

Charlie sobs. I rub his back to comfort him. “Please buddy, just look at the camera and smile.”

He rubs the tears from his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt. And in a lightning instance looks toward the camera lens, grins, says “Cheese!” and I capture the moment. Picture #28. The one we needed.

Charlie resumes to crying as quickly as he had feigned that happy moment. The one that will get the Facebook likes. The moment that will cause me to get text messages remarking how big he’s gotten. How cute he is. How he looks just like his daddy.

We spend the next 10 minutes comforting him in a world that demands things which are very strange and traumatic to him.

We delete the other 27 pictures and share just the one.