Don’t Mind Me
Don’t mind me.
I’m just a mom, sitting in a minivan, crying behind my sunglasses.
I have a son about your age.
His name is Jack. He has autism.
A few days ago we dropped him off at a college program. This program is geared for kids like Jack, who need extra support for daily living and academic courses.
It is year-round.
There is staff available twenty-four hours a day.
They work on life skills, social pragmatics, and financial concepts.
We got there first thing in the morning.
We unpacked the car.
We carried in his new comforter. We unpacked the new dishes. We folded towels and arranged his t-shirts in the drawer.
There was a lunch. We ate burgers. We made small talk with other parents. We met his team—lovely people with name tags that said things like Academic Director and Team Leader.
After the burgers and the small talk and the name tags, we walked out to the parking lot. The sun was shining bright even though the radio promised thunder.
We hugged. Jack doesn’t really like to hug so it was more like a one-armed embrace. He said goodbye. He had tears in his eyes. Then he turned back toward the small brick building.
He went one way.
And we went the other.
I guess you could say I’m numb.
I woke up this morning, and before I even fully opened my eyes, I listened for his footsteps.
I listened for the bang of the bathroom door, and the shake of the small vial of white pills.
For a boy who hates noise, this son of mine is perhaps the loudest person I know.
Lying in bed, it occurred to me I’ve been listening for him for eighteen years—fussy infant, mischievous toddler, restless teenager.
Now, the house is quiet.
Don’t mind me, as I sit here in my car and listen to the radio and contemplate all the things I should have said and done.
I should have inhaled his sweet-smelling hair after a bath.
I should have been more patient when he wanted to watch another Baby Einstein video.
I should have put down the laundry basket and sit on the carpet and stacked his beloved blocks with him.
I should have made life wait.
I should have made autism wait.
Don’t mind me, as I reach my fingers toward the hot flame of regret.
I saw you look back, your bag slung over your shoulders. A long metal bat poked out alongside a pair of cleats.
Jack never played baseball. His brother Charlie did.
For the longest time he couldn’t make it through a game.
I’d coax him through the innings. I’d sit in the bleachers, torn between a son on the mound and a son with his hands clamped over his ears. I didn’t know which way to look.
I remember every moment of those endless days.
Yet I don’t remember my life before autism.
Sometimes I look at kids like you—with your easy smile and you relaxed movements—and my breath catches. I think about what Jack might have been like before anxiety and the spectrum took over his body and his heart.
Autism is heartbreak by one thousand papercuts. They are small. You don’t need a Band-aid. Yet they sting all the same.
Don’t mind me.
I’m just a mom, sitting in her car, wondering where the years went.
A moment ago I was wiping noses. I was looking across a sunlit lawn watching them jump into leaf piles.
A moment ago I folded small overalls. I helped tie shoelaces. I set seven places at the dinner table.
We were so tempted to keep him here, in this house, in this town, in this life.
Like a bird in a gilded cage, we longed to protect him. We weren’t sure he was ready to fly. We didn’t know how to let him go.
He probably won’t run for office, or cure infectious diseases, or become a pilot.
Still, he will do great things.
After all, how do you measure greatness?
Some might say it is measured in wealth, or academic degrees, or social status.
World-changing ideas, Nobel Peace prizes, a commercial aircraft in your command.
This boy Jack, his greatness is measured in small steps forward toward an independent life of his own.
He went one way.
We went the other.
He stood tall.
He looked determined.
Don’t mind me. I’m just sitting here, in my car. I’ll get out soon and get on with my day.
For Mom. I like it here.
July 18, 2022 @ 9:44 am
Hi Carrie, I am a Grandfather to my beloved Grandson also named Jack. My daughter gave me the link to your posts some time ago, letting me know what it feels like to be the mother of an autistic child. Jack is 41/2 years of age and fairly high functioning but still autistic. He has a younger sister, Sadie who is 11/2 years old and is fully neurotypical. She also loves her brother. I read your book, “What Color Is Monday”. Thank you for posting and writing about your family and Jack and how one copes with life involving an autistic child. Some of the little vignettes are very helpful in understanding how to act around these (IMHO) specially gifted children. My Jack loves to play the piano as does his sister. My daughter and myself are both musicians (me professionally for close to 60 years). I am hoping to move closer to my daughter sometime soon. Meanwhile thanks once again, your posts and book do make a difference. Love and Peace, Tim Hinkley http://www.timhinkley.com
July 18, 2022 @ 9:46 am
My heart feels for you. My situation is different in many ways but man, I know and can empathize with many of these emotions. “Heart break by a thousand paper cuts” is so very accurate. Prayers for you today mom!
July 18, 2022 @ 9:57 am
Oh Carrie. Hugs to you.
On a different note: “For a boy who hates noise, this son of mine is perhaps the loudest person I know.” OMG Yes! Just like my son!! lol
July 23, 2022 @ 12:54 pm
Thank you for sharing yoyr story. Thus is my life. Yoyr Jack sounds just like my Ted. They will do great things. Anytime they stand on their own 2 feet, it will be a moment of greatness. I am also a forever mom for my son, I know that now thanks to your words. As another commenter asked, can you share the name of the program he is attending? We’ve got 2 years until high school graduation and have found a couple of post-secondary options that seem like they’ll be a good fit, but always looking for more!
July 18, 2022 @ 10:02 am
Hi Carrie. My son, Tate, is very similar to Jack. He will finish high school this year and we are looking at programs for him next year. Would mind sharing the name of Jack’s school please?
July 18, 2022 @ 11:12 am
Crying right along with you.
July 18, 2022 @ 12:45 pm
Carrie I love your stories about Jack and I feel your mothers pain. We all experience it to some degree at these life transitions, even more so with children who needed more of our TLC than others. You are doing a fabulous job of helping others understand the complex world of autism.
July 18, 2022 @ 2:35 pm
Hi, once again, you make my eyes tear up with the way you articulate all my own feelings as a mother of an autistic son. My head never hits the pillow without at least one regret from the day. I’m so happy you found a program for your son and I hope too as well one day soon.
July 18, 2022 @ 3:18 pm
Thank you for this post today. I am a 78 year-old grandmother raising my 18 year-old grandson almost all his life, having custody for the last 5 years. He, too, is leaving for college in the next few weeks. I am going to remember your words over the years and try to be strong accordingly on August 11th when I drive away and leave him,
July 18, 2022 @ 8:50 pm
You have shared your family and your journey with so many of us. I know I am not the only one feeling so emotional while reading this. I have such confidence in you and Jack. You are both truly amazing. Thank you and take care.