My ten-year-old son has Asperger Syndrome, which is in the Autism Spectrum.  He does, however, function quite well, almost mainstreamed with his peers. He is socially challenged, somewhat reclusive, obsessive, blunt to the point of embarrassment, and has to wear earplugs in school because the noise incapacitates him. Oh . . . I almost forgot: he only eats macaroni. My son is also handsome, loving, affectionate, sensitive, highly intelligent and enthusiastic about his main interest: movies. Each of these qualities, negative or positive, is endearing to me. Colin is Colin: He is my son.

The line, however, between photographer and mother has blurred in the face of this syndrome. Colin did not receive an official diagnosis of Asperger Syndrome until last summer; he had a broader diagnosis of "globally developmentally delayed." Within this diagnosis, he presented with two or three symptoms of Autism, one of which is a strange attachment to an odd object. When Colin was a toddler and a preschooler, he not only ate only macaroni, but he also had to carry a box of macaroni at all times. He slept with a box of macaroni; he brought a box of macaroni in his backpack to preschool every day; he played outside holding a box of macaroni; and he took a box to the beach.

This attachment did not bother me . . . that is, until I wanted to take a perfect portrait of my three children together. People compliment me on my patience when photographing children. These people, however, never saw me photograph my own children. One specific incident taught me that, no matter what, sitting for a portrait should never be torture. (Torture can, after all, undermine art.) Through my viewfinder, both of my sons were striking in their matching, royal blue and navy sweaters and with freshly cut "regular-boy" haircuts. My daughter wore the perfect ensemble complimentary to the royal blue and navy sweaters. I had blown her hair dry, something I only did on special occasions.

The autumn leaves covered our yard in brilliant color. The Mums were plump, having exploded in girth just the day previous. Just as I was about to press the shutter button, Colin revealed a box of macaroni from behind his back. He refused to set it aside. I fought him, yelling sentences that began with phrases like "just this once . . ." and "after all I have done for you  . . ." After 15 minutes of my wild behavior, only broken by my attempts to bribe Colin, I sat on the ground and surrendered with a heavy sigh.  I wanted to cry; all that I had envisioned for my children's portrait would not come to fruition.

But, when I surrendered, the children relaxed. They began to play with each other, giggling and falling on top of one another. I saw hands that clenched leaves wave in the air; I saw feet in the air; I saw tiny noses pop into sight as they made their way from beneath leaf piles. I still wanted to cry, but not because I was angry or disappointed. I was taken by how beautiful they were in their natural states, box of macaroni included.

I took a picture that remains a favorite, a picture of my young, innocent children being just that . . . children, one of which, at the time, looked most natural holding a box of macaroni. When I look at the picture today, I feel happy and nostalgic.  And then I think to myself, "Colin is Colin with every quirk: He is - very simply - my son."

By Erin Heffernan

Erin Heffernan is a photographer in Scituate. Her Wink South series, "Shutter to Think", explains how looking at life from a different angle, even if it's via the viewfinder, can offer valuable lessons (and sometimes comic relief!).