You may not remember me. I saw you a few days ago while wrestling with my toddler to get his shoes on at the gym’s childcare center. My patience was wearing thin as I struggled to corral the older one while pleading, unsuccessfully, with the younger to sit still for the ten seconds it would take to get us ready to leave. In the middle of this all too familiar dance, I looked up in response to hearing a commotion down the hall.
And there I see you engaged in your own battle.
With breathtaking calm, you held and rocked your son through a tantrum that you unapologetically explained to me as Autism Level 2. I helplessly tried to stop my boys from staring, as you rode the wave until he was calmer. Slowly you gathered yourself as you picked up his cowboy boots he wouldn’t wear, which had apparently started the whole episode. Then I watched with astonishment as your beautiful little boy, who just moments before was yelling about not wanting to be touched, came over and hugged my kid asking if they could be friends.
We walked through the halls and out to the parking lot chatting about the things that mothers often do. Our boys walked along side each other while yours instructed mine on the finer points of ninja moves. I couldn’t help noticing that from behind with their similar shades of brown hair, they could have been brothers. From this view, only a few inches separated them.
As we drove home, I quickly discovered that the concept of autism is quite difficult to explain to a four year old. We landed at an understanding that everyone has challenges in different areas, and autism is no different. I found myself wishing I had prepared for this conversation so that I had a better understanding myself. I failed you and your son on that one.
I’ve thought about you a lot lately.
I thought about you when my nerves are frayed, and I just want five minutes when nobody is touching me or speaking to me. It’s in these moments I’m known for joking about my grand escape to Mexico, never to return. I’ve never stopped to think that my edge may be someone else’s starting place.
I thought about you as I sent my son off to preschool this week. He’s the smallest in his class and struggles to be heard sometimes. But I’ve never considered what it might be like to send him into an environment where the other kids and even the teachers may be unsure how best to communicate with him.
I thought about you when I reached down to kiss my son in bed for the tenth time and snuggled with him for just ‘five more minutes pleeeeaaaase.’ There have been so many nights where I accept my own irritation at our never-ending bedtime routine. Those couple of hours between his bedtime and my own are precious. There’s always laundry, dishes, wine, and/or a shower calling my name. Not once have I recognized being able to show my child all the affection I want and to receive it back from him as an extraordinary privilege that some mothers may rarely know.
I ran into you again today in the parking lot by yourself granting me the opportunity to ask you permission to write about our encounter and ask you a few more questions. When I asked the one thing you wish people knew about your experience your answer completely astounded me:
You’re right; everybody’s normal is different.
Isn’t that beautiful? We can never fully understand another’s experience, but we can stand beside each other as we brave the storms together. Awareness is the first step to acceptance and learning how to be a strong ally for families touched by autism is so important. The world knows no power like that when mothers unite around a common understanding. And what I know is this: motherhood is challenging even in the best of circumstances. I hope you know just how strong you are Mama.
Want some help in talking to your kids about autism and what it means for their friends, who may see things differently? A quick Amazon search gives you several options for helpful children’s books that can aid you in that process.
Here is one such book I found particularly helpful, that my son both understood and enjoyed.
You can also visit Autism Speaks for an array of autism awareness resources.
This piece deeply moved me. It took me back to the first autistic child I met, when I was a young man. Billy was the only son of some friends of my parents. I tried to play with him often but it proved too perplexing for a young mind and I gave up.
Tears are falling as I see Billy again through the prism of memory. I wish I had tried harder to understand. I wish there had been more resources on autism in the 1970’s. I wish I could tell him I’m sorry. I wish he could understand and forgive me.
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