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Looking back, little signs had presented themselves, but I looked past them. In playgroups I'd watch bullies whisk Evan's ducky away. Evan just sat there. I remember thinking, "Look how sweet my angel is, he didn't even mind that his toy was ripped out of his hands." When he would flap his hands, I thought it was so cute. People would comment, and I would say, "Yep, he's gonna fly south for the winter any moment now."
He had a fascination with door hinges – I told people he was going to be a mechanic. At the mall, he and I had to ride the escalators 100 times. And my friends were amazed that he could sing an entire Dave Matthews song and not miss a word. I thought I'd given birth to somewhat of a genius. But he had very little "original" speech.
After the diagnosis, I couldn't lie in bed and cry. Instead, I had to promote my book Baby Laughs. Yes, I had to do a week of comedy about my baby, to sell this book, so I could pay for his autism. I know people like to think celebrities are immune from problems. Don't let designer shoes fool you.
At Live With Regis and Kelly, Kelly said, "How's your baby boy doing"? It made me want to cry, but I couldn't. "Really great!" I replied. I immediately went into a joke.
Coming home a week later, I could tell Evan was happy by the amount of flapping going on. Only now I knew it wasn't a cute thing.
Soon afterward, she got a call from Holly Robinson Peete, whose son Rodney, now 9, is autistic. "There is this window of time," Peete told her. "If he aggressively gets treatment, you can pull him out of autism." McCarthy made an appointment at the UCLA Early Childhood Partial Hospitalization Program, an autism treatment center.
That day I put Evan in his best outfit. I thought if he looked adorable, people would see past any of the "flaws."
"Evan, can you point to your feet"? the therapist said. Evan looked into space.
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