One year later

This is where we are, one year later. J is into the first five minutes into his first XC race for the season. He’s in a good mood. Minutes before the race I remind him that he needs to run as fast as he can (which I know he doesn’t know what that is yet) to keep up with the pack. Because we all know it’s no fun to start a race from behind. And although he’s near the back of the pack, seconds after the gun goes off, he’s not trailing the pack like he has done every other race he’s run. He sticks with the pack, and as the pack strings out after the first few minutes, J isn’t dead last, in fact, he’s running alongside another teammate.

And he’s in a good mood. When he passes me, I overhear his teammate say, “let’s do this together, J,” and J picks up his speed a little bit. As I zigzag back and forth across the course to cheer him on, he’s still in a good mood. He asks me where the next turn is, where to go next, how much farther it is. But there’s no mental meltdown or frustrated, emotional words spewing out. He’s not crying. He’s still in that good mood. I hear his coaches call out to him things like, “go catch up to that person,” “keep that right arm up,” and J gets a serious look on his face and starts pumping his arms moving faster toward the person ahead of him. At some points in the race he passes a few people ahead of him. He tries to keep that “right arm up,” although he forgets again after a minute or so. He’s still looks like he’s having a good time. He tells one of the coaches that “it smells like cookies outside,” and “he’s hungry.”

But despite his random thoughts, and his questions of “how much farther,” for the first time ever–in track or XC–I feel like he’s actually “present” in the race. It’s not just something to endure. It’s a challenge. A fun challenge.

He’s the second to last runner on his team to come in (and not the last runner of the race!). And he PRs the heck out of it. His best 3K time last year? 17:11.23 His first race of 2017, one year later? 15:45.04

I was thrilled. For about 30 seconds. Because I’m an autism mom, I have a hard time celebrating milestones. And so instead of being on cloud nine all weekend long, by the time the awards are being handed out, I’ve already analyzed the race a dozen times in my brain as to what really happened, what the next goal should be, and how to get him to run a 4K JV high school race and feel and run as successfully as he did in the middle school 3K race he did today. Not just just run as successfully. Run better. Because his Fargo marathon 5K and 10K mile paces were almost exactly the same pace as today’s 3K. His 3k pace was 8:28, his 5K an 8:27, and his 10K an 8:36….which means he’s running a consistent…almost comfortable race pace no matter what distance he runs. I mean, that 10K was 3 times the distance and he wasn’t running much slower…Sure, he didn’t have a mental meltdown this race, and that’s great, and he’s feeling a competitive edge for the first time in his life, and that’s great, but he needs to develop that edge more. And he needs to learn that mental stamina of pushing past a comfortable pace until the end of the race, and…

And I never really celebrate that first milestone of running a XC course (which is VERY different than a road race, J does MUCH better with road races) successfully, without a meltdown, at a decent pace, without being the last person to finish. Without having someone to run beside him and hold his hand for the last quarter of the race to urge him to finish. Because I still don’t know how to celebrate autism milestones. Because although you are happy, everyone else in the XC world has passed that “completing a race without a shadow runner and a mental meltdown for the entire race” landmark ages ago. It goes with any developmental stage at any time in your child’s life. When your child finally says their first two word sentences consistently at 2.5 years old, you’re glad, you quickly check that off, and you don’t tell other playgroup moms because most of their kids started doing that at 18 months. They’ve already forgotten what a big deal it is. In fact, telling them is just another reminder of all the other things their kids are doing now, and even though your kid has done something great, you’re still so far behind. And so you quickly and quietly go down the checklist of what else your child needs to catch up on, to be at the same place as every one else. You don’t post the milestone of “my son ties his shoes on his own,” complete with a picture on Facebook to commemorate the kindergarten-aged milestone event. Because your child finally learned to tie his shoes (and double knot so they don’t immediately become untied again, because tight laces and fine motor skills aren’t friends) at 12. That’s definitely something you don’t want to shout from the rooftops–in fact, it’s something you actually want to keep on the down low because most people didn’t even know he couldn’t do it in the first place. And now that you think of it, is it something we can really check off yet? Sometimes he still doesn’t tie them up tight enough for a long run, and you quickly have to redo them again discretely, in a corner, before the team runs off.

I need to be better than that. I need to live in J’s milestone moments a little longer because that kid worked pretty darn hard to get there.

This is where we are, one year later. And it’s pretty darn good.

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