My Son, You are Home to Me

I know you are home Cooper. Because you are always home. If you aren’t at school, you are here. You like being here. Home is your whole entire world.

You don’t have play dates. You don’t have sports. There is no one picking you up to take you somewhere special. It doesn’t work like that in our world. Although I can name quite a few people that would literally drop everything to take you somewhere if you ever asked.

You are comfortable here. You are safe here. There are no surprises. You know exactly what to expect.

But most importantly, you are happy here.

As your mom I know how hard you struggle outside of our home. I know kid. I know because I am typically the one bear hugging your body on the ground. Or carrying you over my shoulder while I search for an exit. I know what leaving our home does to you. I know that the repercussions last for days.

So, mom and dad have completely changed their lives to make your home better. Your house is safe, it is secure, and you can wander through without worry.

We don’t stop at the grocery store or run into a gas station. We have completely changed the way we live. And every day, when you are not in school, you are home.

Which has taken some getting used too. It is isolating. I will defend that fact to my death. And even though I know in my heart you don’t want to go anywhere, you should know how much mommy, daddy and brother miss you when we are at a movie or a restaurant.

People have asked if I only have one son. I get that question often. There is a sting in that. All of our best adventures have just three people in the picture. You are absent. And I know I’m not supposed to care. But, I do. I miss you kid.

I also cannot think about the isolation in the future. Will you miss your brother’s baseball games? His graduation? Wedding? I try not to think about it. Right now, you are seven, and you are home.

You have completely taken over our home too. Some days we are walking on eggshells. We try not to interrupt your lines. We sit in the dark. We lock bedroom doors when we need too. We hide toothbrushes and take the glass out of picture frames. I long for the days when I can have lightbulbs in my lamps again and leave my front door open to let the sunshine in.

We give a giggle at your lines of chairs throughout the kitchen. We step over your hoarding piles.

This is your home…we just live here.

No matter where you are in our tiny house I can hear you. I never have to wonder.

I hear the sounds coming from your Kindle. It is always music. Someone or another is singing. Or, a train whistle.

I hear you giggling. Your laugh is the most beautiful thing I have ever heard.

For years, we did not hear it. You were so inside of your own head you did not laugh. Now, we tickle you and squeeze you, when we can catch you, in hopes that we can get some giggles.

I hear your grunts, flaps and hums. You are a walking sound covered in ketchup and syrup.

You spend your time running from room to room. You don’t walk. Everywhere you go is with intense purpose. Although you are never actually doing anything.

Your dad and I laugh at that constantly. Our son lives with a happy purpose. That is what matters.

I’ll be doing dishes or reading a book and I will hear you before I see you. And then before I turn around you are gone.

You run from room to room and nest. You go from your bed, to our bed, to your brother’s bunk bed. And a little bit of you is left behind in each spot.

Treasures I call them.

Your dad has other thoughts. He thinks you are a hoarder. I chuckle at that.

Either way, your treasures are a part of you.

There is evidence of you on every surface in our home.

Piles of photos, treasures, DVD cases, old VHS tapes, coasters and other random items. Birthday cards, scraps of paper. Some are so torn and beat up. I like to say you loved the love out of them.

I see lines. Some go throughout our home.

I see Capri Sun straws and wrappers. I see bowls. Oh my your obsession with bowls.

I will walk into a room and immediately feel your presence. But I rarely see you.

As I get dressed, I hear squeals of joy coming from behind my bed. I peek under and see your face in the glow of your kindle.

I walk into the bathroom and your treasures surround the toilet. They fill the bath tub. They are under the sink.

I go into the living room to finish my coffee. As I sit down I hear the familiar songs of Barney coming from behind the couch. I take a peek as the flash moves to the basement. Piles and piles of things everywhere. I see our electric bill amongst your treasures. And is that my Best Buy credit card? I make a mental note to hide my wallet.

You like to live in your world Cooper. In your little nooks and crannys. Under a table. Behind a couch. Under a bed. I never know where I am going to find you.

Often naked. Streaking by. With a quick dance and a smile.

Sometimes I grab you. I force you to be in my world. I pepper you with hundreds of kisses. I smell you and squeeze you so tight.

I do this kid because some days you rarely give your outside world a second glance. And I need you to know there is room for you here. That the people here miss you.

When you run by without a care as your brother and I play candy land or hit baseballs, I need you to know you are welcome to join us at any time. When you are ready, we will be waiting.

I need you to know that you are my world Cooper. And I will do anything to be part of yours.

Most days I have to steal moments. Steal time. Steal kisses and hugs. I have to make a visual schedule and set an actual timer to get you to be in our world. To be with our family.

I want you to know I’m not going to stop.

There are some days when I can’t wait to get home and have you be you. I crave it. I need it. There is a comfort in your autism. Your uniqueness. I know what to expect.

And then there are some days when your behaviors are so intense that home is not my safe space. I will be the first to jump at the chance to run to the grocery store or target.

Some days, I’ll wonder if you are ever going to leave. I wonder if you’ll look at me one day and say, ‘Mom, it’s time for me to move out.’

I can’t imagine that day. And I’ve prepared myself to always have you. Mom, Dad and Cooper. We will be the three amigos for life.  I’ve always pictured us together kid.

I want you to know that you are my home and you always will be. When I think of home, it isn’t a place. It is wherever you are my son. My little sound covered in ketchup and syrup.

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.