Everyday Motherhood

Can you tell?

When you see me ordering coffee, or mailing a package, or paying for gas, can you tell I’m a mother?

I have five kids, ranging in ages twelve to eighteen. 

I have teenagers and one tween, and each one of them is funny and interesting and smart. 

Still, I miss my little kids.

I miss the kids who believed in Santa and looked for the magic elf and thought marshmallows in hot chocolate was a special treat.

I miss the curve of toddler cheeks, and fluffy towels after bath time, and sweet tiny voices.  

I miss what was, even as I enjoy what is. 

Yet am I romanticizing it all? Am I forgetting how tired I was and how I couldn’t wait for bath time to be over so I could sit on the couch and finally have some time to myself? 

This is everyday motherhood.

We worry. We wait. We pour soap in the tub and hope to wash away the tears. 

When you see me, can you tell?

Can you tell that I’m thinking about permission slips, 7^th grade math, meatloaf for dinner, social anxiety, basketball practice, and new drivers?

Everyday motherhood is a jumble of regret, and small triumphs, and long nights waiting for headlights to sweep up the driveway.

Can you tell how much I worry about my special son?

His name is Jack.

He is seventeen.

He has autism. 

For most of Jack’s life, I wished I had a crystal ball to see into the future. I wanted to know what he would be like in kindergarten, in elementary school, in adolescence. 

Yet I never once pictured him as a man. I’m not sure why.

Now, here we are—on the cusp of young adulthood, where his young mind struggles to catch up to his body. 

Can you tell how much I’m worried about what the next step might be for him?

A residence home?

A low-paying job?

A program auditing college classes?

For the rest of my life, I will worry about this boy.

I will worry about him differently than I worry about my other children.

I will worry about his medication, his finances, his wellbeing, his vulnerability, his safety, his happiness. 

This is everyday motherhood. 

My everyday motherhood. 

Because of this boy, I know things.

I know unconditional love it not easy love.

Unconditional love is gritty, hold-your-head-in-your-hands hard.

It is determined.

It is raw.

It is a choice.

Because of a boy, I know a life different from my own is not a life less lived.

Wait.

That’s a lie.

I do not know this.

I am trying to know this.

Every day, I remind myself.

A life without marriage-kids-career-retirement is still important, and meaningful.

It has tremendous value, and a different kind of joy.

We’re trying to get him into a program next year, one that combines residential living with the opportunity to audit college classes. He could also work a part-time job.

On paper, it seems like the perfect answer.

But when it comes to motherhood, autism, and life, there is no perfect answer.

Who are we without him?

Maybe the real question is, who is he without us, his family, is safety net, his soft landing?

He wants to go.

But is he ready?

What will he do for the rest of his life? How will he fill his days and hours?

I desperately long for someone to tell what the right decision is.

Can you tell how tired I am?

When you see me collecting the mail, walking up my driveway, opening the garage door, can you tell how afraid I am of dying?

The thing is, I keep forgetting that 21-year old Jack may look a lot different than 17-year old Jack.

And the truth is, grown-up Jack will likely do a lot of the same things he does now.

Go to the movies, plan holidays, text his cousins, listen to music. 

The things he wants are simple, and pure. 

A good cheeseburger with no tomato. 

Getting to the theater in time for the trailers.

A funny emoji at the end of a message.

Can you tell how hard I am trying?

I’m trying to stay in the moment, appreciate the past, and not overthink the future.

Living alongside autism, I have learned over and over again to ask one question.

Where do we go from here?

Because of a boy, I know the answer.

We go forward.

Because of this boy, I get up out of my bed, and I swim against anxiety’s angry tide, and float amidst the silent stares.

I hold my breath, and I wait.

This boy.

His name is Jack.

He has autism.

Because of him, I know things.

I know tolerance.

And judgment.

And disappointment.

And grace.

I know life is complicated.

And hard.

And easy.

And ordinary.

I know things are rarely as they seem.

But mostly, I know a different kind of joy.

My son.

Jack-a-boo.