I Can Feed Myself Mama

It happened today. You told me you can feed yourself. And in full disclosure…this was not the first time you’ve told me, ‘I can do it.’ You’ve been telling me that since you were a baby. ‘I do it.’

You’ve always been so strong willed. So independent. You wanted to buckle yourself. Wipe yourself. Get your own snacks. I could go on and on.

You have an independence about you Sawyer that I didn’t know could exist in a child.

And then this morning, I was rushing you along. I needed you to get your coat and boots on for school and there sat your breakfast. Getting cold.

I picked up the fork to feed you and you looked me dead in the eye and said, ‘I can feed myself mama. I’m not a baby. Maybe you should help Cooper mama. He needs your help. Not me. Remember?’

I just looked at you.

So much truth from one little mouth.

I watched you shove your last few bites in your mouth and bound off to put on your jacket. You looked back with that smile. The one. The one that says, ‘I got this. You don’t have to worry about me mama. You’ve clearly got your hands full.’

I just stared. How are you five? How did this happen?

Some days I feel like you were never little sweet boy.

You’ve always been able to do it yourself Sawyer. And for that I am so proud. You are independent and not scared to speak your mind.

I’d like to say I don’t know how you got to be so independent. That would be a fib though. I know why.

It’s your brother. Your autistic older brother who demands so much more of mom’s time. It’s always been that way. Since the day you were born.

I have memories burned in my brain of carrying your brother’s kicking, screaming body through a park or a mall and you toddling behind. You learned to follow my voice. I would be holding him, trying to contain his feet and arms from kicking, knowing we had to get out now. I remember moments where you would reach your little hand up to hold mine and I couldn’t hold it. If I grabbed it, you would get kicked. And I had to get your brother to safety.

In those moments, I would speak so loudly and sternly, ‘Sawyer, come.’ You learned to follow mom and your brother.

Eventually, you  learned to clear the way for us. You’d hold doors. You’d look back and smile. Or, you’d just do your own thing. Look around. Dance. Twirl. Look at your surroundings. And follow along.

In those moments I was so thankful your were somewhat oblivious to the stares. To my anxiety. But mostly, I was thankful for your nonstop chatter while I buckled your brother into his car seat. And then you. And then myself in the front seat. You’d talk the whole way home. I would stare forward. Tears streaming down my face.

Neither of you knew I was crying. I would never let you see. I am the mom. I hold the worry. And your chatter got me through kid. You’d talk of dinosaurs and baseball. You didn’t know that in those moments I was so scared of autism. Nor did you know that your voice got me through.

You grew up faster than you had to kid. And if I dwell on that fact I get sad too sad.

You learned by watching us teach Cooper. You learned to use a fork. To drink from a cup. To use the toilet. Oh my god the countless hours we would spend with Cooper. And you were right there my little one. Observing. Learning. Grasping every skill so effortlessly.

I can’t remember one skill we had to specifically teach you. You just ‘did it all.’ Maybe that’s why I felt like I missed out. You were so easy my love.

As I watched you this morning I tried to remember feeding you. Actually feeding you from a spoon. I couldn’t remember. And yet, I feed your brother multiple times a day. His little mouth open like a bird. We still play airplane and sing silly songs while he eats. He is seven. I don’t know if that will ever go away. I may be feeding him forever.

And you, you told me today you are done.

Yesterday, your brother screamed all day. From morning until night. He doesn’t typically do that and I think in a way he was trying to communicate. He was happy and oh so loud. At one point you looked me dead in the eye and said, ‘mama, this noise is ridiculous.’ I burst out laughing. That was at 11 am.

By 5 pm I couldn’t see straight. The nonstop sounds. You grabbed my hand and asked me to play for what felt like the millionth time. I couldn’t. My mind and sanity were gone.

You smiled. You understood. Instead, we climbed into bed together. I read a book. You watched The Jungle Book. And we just laid there. I never pass up a moment to snuggle you. To hold you.

Those moments. Those autism free moments. I’m not talking about Cooper. Cooper is my son. My love. But some days, autism is more than I can take. So, I soak up those breaks when I get them.

Today, it really hit me. You can feed yourself. You aren’t a baby. And I have this guilt. This sadness. Did I miss it all? Did I rush you along out of necessity? Did I mess up?

Autism changed me Sawyer. I am very open about that. I often feel like you get the leftover pieces of a mother who is exhausted. I want you to know I try. Every single day I try.

Today, I realized something huge. Autism changed you too. It made you stronger. It made you independent. You know how to do just about everything.

And if you had to grow up faster than I would’ve liked, I’m glad it was for the love of a brother and mother who so dearly need you.

Cooper and Sawyer

Finding Cooper’s Voice is a safe, humorous, caring and honest place where you can celebrate the unique challenges of parenting a special needs child. Because you’re never alone in the struggles you face. And once you find your people, your allies, your village….all the challenges and struggles will seem just a little bit easier. Welcome to our journey. You can also follow us on Facebook and subscribe to our newsletter.