Why Henry has an ipad.

What is luxury to you?

A $300 purse?
A $25 manicure?
10 minutes alone in the bathroom?

Recently I heard an acquaintance smugly remark that her son had never used an ipad or iphone. Well, good for you, rang in my head. See, an ipad might seem like a ridiculous toddler luxury to her - a few years ago I thought so too, and I agree it still can be - but the absence of an ipad is luxury to me.

I don't know if I'll ever forget the looks of shock Keith and I exchanged in our early days with the ipad. Just for fun, Keith bought one app and showed it to Henry. The next thing we knew, Henry was interacting with books and his fingers were flying through Memory games, the very same games he ignored unplugged. As he sped through the levels, we simply gaped. There was no turning back. Matching games, animals sound games, alphabet games, number games, drawing games, train-building games. You name it, he loved it.

And then there was the day I said, "Holy cow, is he… spelling?" Our little guy, who could barely put a sentence together with his mouth, was using the ipad and his fingers to spell.

As we were learning the value of pictures for the autistic brain, we were also struggling with bedtime. Keith created a simple visual schedule on the ipad with four pictures of Henry's bathtub, toothbrush, books, and bed. That evening Keith showed Henry the pictures and clearly, firmly declared, "Bath. Brush. Books. Bed." Bam. Henry was going up the stairs without complaint. We stared at each other. Could it really be that easy?

We've read and watched the heart-wrenchingly beautiful stories of nonverbal folks who now speak with an ipad, unlocking what has been tucked within, in some cases, for many years. We've cried along with the parents who discovered their children's personalities for the first time. For us the need for the ipad is not quite that dramatic. But here's what it does for us.

• We no longer have to be terrified of dining out with friends and family. Do we do this often? No. But now we don't carry the fear of repeating the disastrous event of The Beacon circa Christmas 2012. We know which restaurants to avoid, but we also know we can pull out the ipad if the wait becomes too long and/or Henry's sensory needs are exploding.
• If church for some reason induces anxiety, he can sit in worship with us and use his ipad with headphones. (The same goes for any anxiety-inducing situation.) We don't have to forego our own experience.
• We can quickly and cheaply find resources to assist him with whatever learning or behavioral challenge we are dealing with, and they're all contained in one place. 
• Visual schedules are easy to create on the fly.
• Car rides = almost perfect

I'm probably not even remembering everything right now. Sure, maybe parts of it are a luxury. He doesn't need to play Minion Rush or watch YouTube videos of the dude in New Zealand doing Thomas reviews. On the other hand, the ipad is an absolute necessity for Henry (and us).  Taking away his ipad after 30 minutes waiting on food in a restaurant would be like taking away another kid's Matchbox cars or My Little Ponies.

I didn't plan this. In fact, I planned the opposite. I bought the handmade crayon roll from Etsy, ready to whip out of the bag at a moment's notice. I had the purse-sized coloring and activity books. I tucked the tiny Toy Story figures into his diaper bag so he could act out stories. Yes, I was the typical mom.

But I don't have a typical kid, so I had to stop being a typical mom. My son would rather be ninja-kicked in the jaw than forced to color. And playing with little figures? Um, definitely not what he prefers when he's anxious and certainly not what I want thrown in my eye. In fact, it took many hours of therapy before we saw age-appropriate play like that emerging.

Autism changed my definition of luxury, just as it changed everything else. And I do mean everything. An expensive piece of technology for a 3-year-old? No. My little guy spontaneously pulling out an activity other than trains or the ipad?

Yes.