On Re-Finding Your People
Tuesday afternoons I sit in the visual therapy waiting room and watch moms give their son or daughter a quick shower of encouragement before their child goes back with their therapist. Almost always there is a sigh of momentary relief. Sometimes they’re alone and they pull out their book or phone and have a peaceful 45 minutes to themselves. Sometimes they’re multi-tasking their book or phone with their other children in the waiting room. Sometimes they’re out the door again to pick up their other children from an activity and ten minutes later they’re back again with another child in tow.
It wasn’t until J gave me a very enthusiastic, full thumbs up while saying “I’m going to work hard mom, I’m going to do AWESOME. Right mom? Okay mom? Right mom?” on our first visit that it hit me that I was sitting with my people–other moms of kids with special needs or considerations. Just as I was about to explain to the other three moms in the waiting area that J has autism, all three moms gave me a quick smile and continued with their books or managing their children. It wasn’t a “polite sympathy smile” like I sometimes get from people, it wasn’t a “polite, what’s wrong with your child” smile like I also get from time to time. Or even a polite, “I’m just going to pretend I’m not noticing what’s going on right now” smile. It was a polite “your kid is awesome, don’t worry about it, we’ve got a character too,” kind of smile.
And that’s when I realized that it’s been years–over a decade–since I’ve had that type of smile from another mom in public.
Therapy has been an interesting journey for us. J started his first therapies just weeks after he turned two. And I remember all the chaos and fear and hope that I had when we first started. J’s first weeks of therapy were my first weeks of recovering from an appendectomy and umbilical hernia repair. My mum was in town to help out–not only with J, but with W who was around six weeks old at the time. Because of my surgery, I couldn’t even pick up W, so my mum helped get us all to J’s developmental preschool for those first few times–baby W and car seat in one hand, J in the other. I remember being overwhelmed and slightly embarrassed because the kids and I were a walking train wreck.
But I quickly realized that no one cared. All of the other moms and preschoolers in the room were dealing with their own version of a train wreck. Because the preschool we were attending was for kids with developmental delays under the age of three, a lot of the moms were dealing with fresh diagnoses or revelations about their child. I quickly formed bonds with these women in the few minutes we had walking our tantruming children back to the car after preschool, or in the quick peaceful moments of snack time. There was never more time than that to chat or commiserate outside of those moments.
I remember having an especially cathartic 2 minute conversation with a mom who had twin boy toddlers with autism as we walked to our car.
“It’s so hard. Sometimes you just need wine,” she said.
“Absolutely, I said. If you need to whine, just whine,” I replied. “Anytime, I don’t mind.”
Yup, we were both that exhausted we couldn’t even communicate. But it didn’t matter because it was just nice to know you had another person beside you who understood the journey you were going through.
In J’s preschool years, it was much easier to find my autism mom people. Maybe it was because we were all in intensive early intervention programs together. Maybe it was because we were constantly trying to understand and connect with our children that if anyone had any insight from things like potty training to speech or behaviour, we were eager to share. Maybe because the shock and pain of a fresh diagnosis is an instant way to connect.
But as J has gotten older, I’ve found that I’ve lost a lot of my physical connection with my autism mom community. Steve and I rely on the school district for all of J’s speech therapy, occupational therapy, and special education services. It’s expensive to seek out private therapy outside of the school district, and we really haven’t done it (except for a short stint in the summer of 2010 for speech/auditory processing). Most of my interactions with other adults concerning J are with his school special education team, his coaches, or parents in the neighbourhood, none of whom are raising children with autism. We’ve also worked so hard for inclusion and trying to establish good relationships within that community that over the past ten years that I really haven’t had a lot of opportunities to connect with other special education moms.
There have been a few times over the last decade where I’ve thought about seeking out my autism mom community again, but with all of the other things I’m trying to manage with J, W, and my own work it’s really hard to logistically find that time or those places. Autism has a way of separating you from all of the typical moms but also the other autism moms too. You get caught up in your kid’s therapy and problems and solutions and often work in your own little bubble.
So when I found myself greeted by polite, “your kid is awesome, don’t worry about it, we’ve got a character too,” smiles in the visual therapy office a few weeks ago, I was flooded by love and endearment for those moms I’ve missed over the years. I know they’re busy too–researching the latest therapies, managing emotional crises, shuffling your other kids to activities, trying to find downtime for themselves. Those women are warriors. Thank you for your kind smiles. It’s nice not to have to explain yourself to someone who genuinely knows what the spectrum looks like.
