When I was five, I wondered if I’d be allowed to get a cat. When I was 10, I wondered if I would settle down in one school. When I was 15, I wondered if I would make it through my teenage years unscathed. When I was 20, I wondered if I’d ever find my place in the world. I wished I had a way to find out. I wished I had a crystal ball. Because I was desperate to know what this crazy life had in store for me. And it was no different when I became a mom at 38.
I hoped I’d be a good mom. I didn’t know how to be one yet. I wondered if I’d do a good job? And if my parenting would ensure that my kiddo would be emotionally secure and well-adjusted one day? If he’d know in his heart that no matter what went wrong, I’d help him. And no matter what happened, he could always come home. That I would always be there for him, whatever the challenge. That even when we were apart, our incredible bond, forged by the deepest truest love, would bind us close together still. I wanted more than anything to become his safety and to be his peace.
My son was indicated for moderate to severe autism at 18 months old. At three, he was officially diagnosed with the same. And I find that none of my basic hopes for him have changed. If anything, those same desires are even stronger now. Because my sweet boy is a bit more vulnerable than the next kid, and needs additional supports. And that’s because simple things can be hard for him sometimes. He struggles with sensory overload and with regulating his emotions. He is unnerved by the kind of environments and entertainments the rest of us gravitate towards. But he never stops trying. He never stops working to enjoy all life has to offer, even if he can only manage short stints in different places. All these little things are big things for him, he is an absolute champion – my little superhero! And I feel fiercely protective of my loving little boy with his big heart full of courage. Because the world that once confused me, through almost every stage of my life, seems even more scary to me now. I belong, heart and soul, to a sweet child who will struggle to navigate it. Though it’s a world not built for him, he still must find his way in it.
When I think of sending him off to kindergarten, icy panic grips my heart. Will he be anxious, will he be understood, will he be included, and will he be treated with care by others? Will he enjoy his day, have a favourite subject, eat his lunch without issue, and sit next to a little friend? My greatest fear is that he may be neglected while out of my care. Or misunderstood. Or picked on by other children for his differences. Part of me wants to keep him safe with me here forever. The other part wants him to have all the same experiences typical children do. But we don’t know to what extent that will be possible. His ABA case manager feels that while we should enrol him in classes and school eventually, he will need 1:1 support in his classrooms until he’s well into his teens. And that’s a sobering thing to hear when he’s just three years old. It’s a paper cut that stings… And while that may sketch out a framework for his learning, it still doesn’t answer so many of our questions! I find myself again wishing I had a crystal ball, so I could catch a glimpse of his future. Just to reassure myself, that everything will be okay.
Like every other special needs parent, I could drive myself wild with all the “how’s”, “when’s” and “what if’s”. And sometimes I do. I try not to, but I ruminate over everything. Mostly in the quiet times – in the shower, in the car, when my son is in therapy, or after he’s gone to sleep. I’ve laid awake in the darkness with my questions and prayers for countless nights and early mornings. But I think ultimately, there’s only one thing that I wish for with all my heart, and that’s that whatever Aidan’s future looks like, whatever his experiences, or achievements, or choices, that he’s happy. That’s the only thing that truly matters to us at the end of the day. It’s the thing we wish for above all else. His happiness is absolutely everything to me.
