The Spark: A Mother's Story of Nurturing Genius (35 page)

One night earlier in the summer, Narnie had come over while we were watching the movie
Talladega Nights
, a favorite in our house. In the movie, race car driver Ricky Bobby (played by Will Ferrell, so you can only imagine) gets physically thrown out of an Applebee’s. Watching the scene reminded me how Heather, my daycare assistant, had told Jake that he was going to win a big award someday and when he did, I was going to cheer so loud I’d get us all kicked out of a restaurant. As I was telling this story to Narnie, the two of us looked at each other, and a lightbulb went off.

It was perfect. A regular kid doesn’t toast a success—I don’t care how illustrious it is—with champagne at a fancy restaurant with white tablecloths. A regular kid high-fives his friends and eats as many hot wings as he can. So we were going to go out with our friends to have a good time, and if people wanted to toast Jake, they could raise their root beer floats.

I drove by the Applebee’s near us and spoke with the manager. I told him the whole story, and we came up with a plan I felt sure would crack Jake up.

While Mike and I were watching Jake present his research, Narnie subbed in for me at the daycare. On the side, she got Ethan and Wesley totally NASCARed up, Talladega-style. She covered them in temporary tattoos, and they made ripped-up T-shirts that read “Jake—you rock!” She even put do-rags on them.

When we walked into Applebee’s with Jake, everyone was there, ready to celebrate Barnett-style. There were friends from Little Light, friends who’d been in the daycare when he was little, and all of his friends from elementary school. I wanted Jake to know that no matter how many conjectures he solved, there would always be a group of people who remembered what he looked like the day I dressed him and all the other daycare kids up like Santa’s reindeer.

It was an amazing night. We set up the poster Jake had made to present his research, and he told us (in the most general terms) what he’d learned. He ate a gigantic hamburger and had a sundae for dessert. We stayed late, because everyone had a story to tell about Jake.

At the end of the night, all of us hooted and clapped and screamed our heads off in celebration of him, Ricky Bobby–style. And when it was time to get “kicked out,” the waitresses picked Jake up, put him on their shoulders, and carried him right out of that Applebee’s with a huge grin on his face.

“H
e can do anything he wants.”

That’s what Jake’s physics professor Dr. Ross said when the
Indianapolis Star
reporter asked him what he thought Jacob would do with his talents. When I read those words, a chill went down my spine. This is how far we’ve come, from the special ed teachers who didn’t believe Jacob could ever learn to read, to a university physics professor who sees his unlimited potential.
That’s
the kind of ceiling I want my son’s teachers to be setting for him. More important, it’s the ceiling I want teachers and parents to set for every child, and for all of us to set for ourselves.

I wrote this book because I believe Jake’s story is emblematic for all children. Though his gifts are unique, his story highlights the possibility we all have of realizing what is extraordinary in ourselves, and maybe even opens the door to the possibility that “genius” might not be all that rare. I’m not suggesting every autistic child is a prodigy, or every typical child, for that matter. But if you fuel a child’s innate spark, it will
always
point the way to far greater heights than you could ever have imagined.

It’s hard to trust your child to find his or her own path, especially when we’re told every day by professionals that children must fit into rigid boxes. We all want to give our kids the best opportunities we can, which is why it feels like such a disservice if we don’t push them in the “right” direction. Celebrating your children’s passions rather than redirecting them, especially when those passions don’t line up neatly with a checklist for future success, can feel like jumping off a cliff. It
certainly did for me. But that leap of faith is necessary if your kids are going to fly.

If a child who was never supposed to talk or read can rise to such improbable heights, imagine what children without such challenges might achieve, and how far they might soar if we encouraged them to unfurl their wings—past any horizon, past even our wildest expectations. By sharing our story, I hope that will happen.

Grandpa John, building his beloved sailboat. He was never too busy to take us fishing.

My Grandpa John and Grandma Edie on their wedding day.

We both had big dreams for this little boy.

Jake could spend hours watching the play of light and shadows.

No cereal box was safe. How could we know he was learning to calculate volume?

I couldn’t tear Jake’s attention away from the reflection on this apple long enough to get a good picture.

An elaborate pattern Jake made on the carpet with Q-tips. These designs gave me a peek into his mind.

Therapy was boring … but Little Light wasn’t.

The children at Little Light successfully achieve circle time by popping bubbles with their toes. Jake is pictured on the right in his beloved plaid shirt.