Check the Box
We just started the college application process with our oldest son, Joseph.
Some people call him Joey, or even Joe. I call him Buca. I’ve done it since he was two weeks old. I can’t really explain why.
Anyway, this college stuff is pretty overwhelming. There’s a lot to it—GPA, test scores, activities, clubs, letters of recommendation.
Together, he and I hunch over the laptop and answer questions about my education, his high school course load, and how many teams he’s joined.
His grades are decent, and he performs pretty well on standardized tests, but we always come up short in the extracurricular activity department.
I think this is because there aren’t enough boxes. Sure, you can check off things like swimming, and fencing, and modern dace. There is space for debate club, and baseball, and even birdwatching.
But where is the box for the boy who grew up alongside autism—who, from the time he was a toddler, learned to share, and breathe, and give for someone other than himself?
Who quieted his wild brother on the bus ride home from school?
A small part of me can’t help but feel bitter, as though the process is a tiny bit rigged for families with the resources and the time to enroll their offspring in every club, team, and activity under the sun.
We have the resources. My husband has been diligent with savings plans and investment and a trained eye on the future for each of his children.
What I didn’t have was the time.
I am not the best mother. I’ve never pretended I was.
Did I sit down and review flash cards every afternoon? Well, no.
I signed homework logs with half an eye and tossed watercolor paintings into recycling, right along with the flyers for Cub Scouts and swim meets and recreational lacrosse.
Did my husband set aside time every evening to run basketball drills on the driveway, hoping to tease out some overlooked seed of talent? No, he did not.
Did we rush out the door to soccer practice on Saturday mornings and, from there, race to lacrosse, only to finish in time for jiu jitsu three towns away? No, we did not.
What we did was build a family. We took the scraps that daily life with small children offers, and wove it into a tapestry full of pork chops and tantrums and diapers and lessons on changing lightbulbs.
Where is the box for this?
Where is the box for the boy who set the table for dinner, and kept his special brother occupied with Little People figures so I could cook?
Where is the box to check for saving someone who was drowning?
He did this, you know. My son Joseph/Joey/Buca saved three brothers and one sister from drowning.
He was fifteen.
We were tubing on a river in Maine and they were all playing and splashing and swimming and then they began to call for us. Only we thought they wanted to play so we waited a second until we turned around and realized the river had dropped off and they weren’t ready for it.
In that second, he pulled them from the deep water. He didn’t think, he just did.
Where is the box for instinct, and character, and brotherhood?
I know, I know. The essay. He can explain all who he is in the college essay.
But I want a box. I want a box because I have to believe there are others like him—kids whose needs often slid to the backseat in the name a diagnosed sibling.
He is a brother of autism. And the truth is, I didn’t always have time to drive him to karate or practice math facts.
I need a box for this.
I need a box for my shame, and my guilt, and my deep longing to turn back the clock.
A mother’s guilt comes in many shapes and sizes, you see. It can be the smallest crack with her spirit, or two hands ticking round a numbered circle.
It’s true I’ve made many mistakes, but not once did I expect them to show up on a college application.
He is a brother.
He is a son.
He is funny, and kind, and gentle.
He has made a lot of sacrifices over the years. I’m not sure he realizes how many.
We need a box for this.
Now, more than ever, I believe the time has come for us to honor these qualities.
July 6, 2020 @ 9:54 am
Yes. We have 6 older, and one younger than our now 23 year old daughter who suffers from (yes, suffers) ASD and Borderline Personality Disorder. She has dominated our lives from infancy. I’m not saying that it’s all negative because we wouldn’t be who we are without these challenges, but when one person’s needs are so demanding and constant, it does dominate your life. When my second oldest daughter was finishing her first year of nursing school in Florida (we live in NH, also) she wanted us to come down for her pinning ceremony. I was reluctant- middle school was becoming way more difficult for K. I was getting calls from the school literally every day. My daughter said to me: “Mom, you have other kids. I want you and Dad to be here.” We went. I called the school principal, told her where we were going, who would be taking care of K, etc. She still called me every day, just to keep me abreast of what was happening, but with no expectation that I needed to do anything. But we learned several very important lessons: 1) We cannot do it all, by ourselves, every single day of every single week; 2) Self care is of primary importance. We need to get away from it all, take a break, shift some of the responsibility for a time; and 3) The hardest thing for every parent of a differently-abled child to face- we will not be here to protect this child forever. We are both in our 60’s, and facing the “Golden Years” with this often overwhelming responsibility (read up on Borderline Personality Disorder, then add in ASD). I am thankful that we have some of those siblings who are willing and able to help with these responsibilities. I’m sure they look at the people of the world through different eyes because of their sister. We look to the future with less trepidation because these kids grew up with this kid, and we know that she will be taken care of.
July 6, 2020 @ 11:10 am
I see your son Joey. I see his compassion and his patience and his contribution to keep his special family a float. I also see his own struggle like I see the struggle of my own daughter whose younger brother has autism. The siblings are often the silent (or not so silent in our case) victims of this unfair genetic roulette. Your son is a good human and hopefully he will have a meaningful college experience next year.
July 6, 2020 @ 12:18 pm
Yes Yes Yes. There should be boxes to check for those things. Those boxes are the ones that shape who you really are. What a good son your Joey is. As the first born he will always have that inclination to look behind him to make sure everyone is OK. He will be a good leader.
July 6, 2020 @ 5:44 pm
This is just beautiful. Should be distributed to college admissions officers everywhere. Totally agree our priorities are misguided and also agree unequivocally that the system is rigged.
September 25, 2020 @ 7:11 pm
I know this is late, but I would like that box. I would like that box for all the times I’ve cleaned up puke. For all the times I’ve changed diapers. For all the times that I’ve had to explain to my brother, that we need to sit, be calm, and quiet. For all the times that I have spelled out simple words on the fridge, and helped calm him down. For my silent tears, and worries that I won’t get enough scholarships. For the change that I want to see in the world. I want to help children like my brother.
I just worry that I’m not in enough clubs, or doing enough leadership activities. I can’t be in those clubs, I can’t do those activities, but what I can do is care for my brother. Help my mother.
I’m just worried that college admissions people won’t see that.
October 3, 2020 @ 9:50 pm
I see you, Bethany. I see you, and you are extraordinary.