My Son, the Parrot by Justin W. Price

?Gimme.?

My toddler, Tommy, can talk now. His first word was not ?mama?, as I?d hoped, nor ?dada? but ?gimme.? A mother shouldn?t be proud that her sons? first word represents greed and selfishness instead of love and adoration but, his sweet, tiny voice, moves me none the less.

The fact that he can talk at all is reason for celebration.

Having a successful pregnancy at forty after more than a decade of fertility testing and drugs, leading to marital strife and counseling, and finally acceptance that I would not be a mother, it happened. We knew the increased risks: Downs Syndrome, spina bifida, cleft palate and other birth defects with varying degrees of severity. When my prenatal testing came back with less than stellar results, the doctors recommended termination, but we were determined. We wanted a baby, not perfection. We wanted someone to love, to mold, to cherish. Tommy is my true miracle. Given the risks, we were fortunate. Tommy?s form of autism was supposed to leave him low functioning and non-communicative.

He started talking last week. At thirty-nine months.

?We don?t say ?gimme?. We say ?please?,? I?m standing across from him, preparing dinner: rosemary Salmon for Glenn and I, plain white rice and hot dogs for Tommy. The kitchen is painted in light pastels, gentle tones are easier on Tommy, keeping his tantrums down. The corners of all of our cupboards and doors are rubberized, in case Tommy ever learns to walk. My apron has Thomas the Tank Engine on it.

What he wants is the model train car on the counter in front of him. It?s a replica from

Polar Express. He loves trains. His room is wallpapered with them; his mobile depicts the Orient

Express. We had to special order it. It cost three hundred and fifty dollars, plus shipping. He watches them go around and around and he squeals and claps his chubby hands. Money well spent. The Little Engine that Could. Thomas the Tank Engine. These are his favorite stories.

He?s perched in a high chair which he?s almost too big for, attached to the kitchen counter and the train is just out of reach. With a grunt he stretches and strains. His chubby legs stretch, his feet curl into grotesque talons. His arms flail and flap, frustratingly close to his goal. His blonde hair dances awkwardly.

?Gimme,? he says again, his face turning red with frustration, his nose scrunching into a

curve.

?We don?t say ?gimme?. We say ?please?,? Dr. Anderson told us to repeat what we want him to say. With enough repetition, he would get it.

?He?s a person, not a parrot!? I told him then.

?Yes. Indeed. He is a person. And, like all people, he will learn through repetition and observation. It?s especially important, given his condition,? he said, chewing on his ball point pen, rapping his fingers on Tommy?s chart.

Given his condition.

So cold. So calculating. So? clinical.

He?s my son, not a parrot! I may have said this again. I?m not sure.

I didn?t like it; don?t like it. Yet I?m here, repeating myself; treating Tommy like he?s nothing more than a parrot.

Tommy stretches and strains and finally cracks. His blue eyes grow wide and then close. He scrunches his face. He looks like a Cabbage Patch Doll. His lips purse, before opening and bursting forth with a terrifyingly, dramatic squawk?a squawk I have come to associate with my son. ?Gimme,? he says again, with tears streaming down his fat cheeks. Only this time, it?s sad and pathetic. It sounds like ?Mah-mee?.

I burst into tears and before burying my head in my hands, hand him the model train, and listen to him begin to squeal with delight.