Learning to be happy

I never thought I'd have three daughters. Seven years of playing football, 20 years of dirt bikes, judo, golf, hunting, fishing -- I just figured I harbored some genetic imperative for maleness.

But God has a sense of humor and blessed us with three girls who doted on me last Sunday: Caroline, 8, the socialite drama queen; Olivia, 6, the happy-go-lucky goofball; and Nicole, 5, who shares many traits with her sisters except one.

Nicole has autism.

Autism makes for stiff conversation. When I say Nicole is autistic, some folks react like you've had a flat tire. ("Bummer, dude. You watch the Lakers last night?") Others may bring up "Rain Man," because that's all they know about it. ("Does she have any special talents?") I don't blame them, because I knew nothing about autism before Nicole.

Thanks to an incredible mother, great support from Wake County and a wonderful staff at Learning Together preschool in Raleigh, Nicole has made great strides.

Nicole caught her first fish in May. Wearing her fishing hat (a fedora she spotted at Agri Supply), she landed a hand-sized bream at Harris Lake County Park. A bit intimidated at first, she stroked the fish before her mother released it.

Nicole also danced in her first ballet recital last week -- a fairly mundane event for some kids, but a milestone for a child we couldn't keep dressed two years ago.

She was first diagnosed around 3 1/2 years ago. Arm flapping and delays in walking and speech were red flags that my wife, Renee, noticed, and we started the early intervention process with Children's Developmental Services Agency.

The early years were tough. There were fits and tantrums, long nights and early mornings. Trips to the store were always difficult, and we picked our spots to attempt family outings. Sometimes you didn't know if she was being autistic or being a 3-year-old or both. You just knew you had to be patient, firm and strong.

There was a statistic quoted on "The Oprah Winfrey Show" (but unsubstantiated by the National Autism Association) that 80 percent of marriages with autistic children end in divorce. That's staggering if true, and I can see some truth in it. God bless the parents of children with more severe tendencies.

Nicole has the label of "high functioning" (I hate labels), and she is a little imp, full of mischief with bright eyes and a quick smile. She loves her grandparents and ignores the dog. She loves to sing (and got her voice from her mother).

She's also a lot like her father: She obsesses on some things and discounts others. She's small in stature but strong for her size. She can be as stubborn as a bird dog one minute and then passive as a lamb the next. There's never a dull moment, and early on there were often tears all around as we tried to live and grow.

In "I'd Have To Be Crazy," Willie Nelson sang "I may not be normal, but nobody is ... " and that rings true. Having been labeled an "acquired taste" by one female former housemate and a "freak of nature" by another, I've always kind of reveled in my quirkiness, exploited it even. Nicole doesn't have that luxury. While autism is not a barrier for her, it is an obstacle to work around and maybe one day to conquer. Right now there isn't a pill for it, and we don't have a magic wand.

But I see good things ahead for my little girl. She's come so far, and though her path may wind more, she's got a lot of support for the journey. I don't care if she never catches another fish or dances another recital. I don't want her to be normal, whatever that is, just happy. And I think she is.

And she's taught me a lot. I used to glare at the parents of the crying baby in the restaurant, shake my head at the toddler pitching a fit at the grocery story. Never again.

That kid could be Nicole.