I Forgot to Be Proud

I’m sorry, miss, he can’t order the chicken tenders. They’re only on the kids’ menu and it’s for twelve and under.

My son.

You stood in line for the diving board.

And I forgot to feel proud.

You tried a bite of lasagna.

And I forgot to feel proud. 

You laughed out loud during dinner.

And I forgot to feel proud.

For the longest time, you were terrified of the pool. You paced back and forth at the edge of the water, kneeling to test the temperature with your fingers.

One day, you tentatively dipped your feet in, and slid off the side. As soon as I saw you standing there, I suggested you try and swim to the ladder. 

This how it’s always been.

You took a step, and I wanted you to run.

You spoke a word, and I wished for a sentence.

I don’t know how to teach people about autism.

I’m just trying to teach myself.

Yet I am considered an advocate. My job is to fit a square boy into the round world and hope for the best.

Little by little, I am learning to speak your language. 

I’m learning all I need to slow time down and listen.

I take a big breath, ignore the clock, notice the early morning sunlight spread across the floor, and listen. 

And when I am done listening, I try to hear you.

I hear the cadence of your voice, and the urgency of your words, and the message beneath the tone.

When I’m done hearing, I watch.

I watch the way your hands flutter and move. 

I watch your eyes flicker to the ground, and back up to meet mine.

I see you. I see how hard you work.

My son, I am trying.

I am trying figure out when to push you and when to let it be. Let’s just say some days are harder than others. 

At seventeen, you have the silhouette and the voice of a man, but your spirit and heart remain so very young.

In a perfect world, you’d be asking for the keys to the car, and begging for a later curfew.

You might have a girlfriend, or run track for the school team. 

We are in what some might call a bit of a lull right now. Progress has kind of stalled. When this happens, I fight the urge to panic. I force myself to slow down, even as the minutes whiz by me.

My son, this is motherhood. 

We walk through life with eyes trained on the horizon, while we look over our shoulder at the mistakes we’ve made, scattered in our wake like so many discarded candy wrappers.

Maybe there’s no such thing as perfect. 

Maybe there’s just long days and sweet moments and the smell of chlorine in the summer.

It takes so little to make you happy, that’s the thing. A new movie, a good song on the radio, chicken fingers for lunch.

You are trying. 

I am trying. 

We are learning, and living, and telling. 

It turns out, the telling part is good. There is a healing beauty in it. 

It is my salvation, my repentance, my battle cry, my gulp of fresh blue air, all wrapped up inside of the words. 

This my son Jack. He has autism. We came here so he could have the chicken fingers. They are his favorite. 

I don’t know, maybe advocacy isn’t a fancy idea about forcing circles and squares together after all. Maybe it’s sitting in a restaurant, and quietly asking for what is rightfully yours. 

I do know this: time and time again autism forces me to reach deep inside, and bravely pull out a better version of myself. 

More often than not, others do the same.

Oh, gosh, I’m sorry! Of course, of course. Jack, whatever you want is great. 

The truth is, progress has soft footsteps. It doesn’t announce itself in broad daylight or ride in like a white knight. It is a whisper, not a shout.

It is a small glimmer of light at the end of this endless tunnel.

Mom. For me. Maybe I will try the steak. From the grown-up menu.

Jack-a- boo I am proud of you

I am proud of who you are.

And who you may be.

I love you fiercely.

My son.

My sun.