Without Autism…

This weekend my son Cooper is spending time with his grandparents. He is getting spoiled, doted on, and loved in that special way only grandparents can do.

We needed this break. We just welcomed a new baby into our world.

Our five year old Sawyer needed a break. Mom and dad needed it. Cooper needed it.

Within 30 minutes of dad dropping him off, I let out the breath I had been holding. The breath I have to hold when I have Cooper. The breath I often don’t know I am holding. It has become my life I guess.

The hyper-vigilance. The worry. The constant awareness.

I let myself feel the calm of having two children, a newborn and one who is five. My easy ones.

I loaded them in the car. I took them through the Starbucks drive thru. Sawyer got a cookie. Mom got a coffee. Something we could never do with Cooper. Drive thru’s are not an option with him.

I remembered we needed something for dinner. I had promised Sawyer pizza before we attended his Halloween party at school. Normally, it would have to be delivered. Or we’d have to go to the store without Cooper. But not today.

We stopped at a grocery store. Sawyer actually said…’why are we here mama?’

Sawyer walked through the parking lot and next to the cart. Baby rode in the cart. We shopped. We chatted. We took our time. I almost took a picture of my children. It felt that monumental.

After, we drove around. We didn’t have to race home hoping to beat Cooper’s screams. When we arrived, we took our time walking in. I didn’t have to get Cooper in and then come back for everything and everyone else. No hand-over-hand, no running, no screaming. We walked in together.

We relaxed.

By hour five Sawyer said, ‘Mom, when is my brother coming home?’ I told him on Sunday. And he so quietly said, ‘Mom, it’s very different when he isn’t here. You are different. It is quiet. I like it.’

In awe of his awareness, I acknowledged his very real feelings. Autism controls our life. I won’t ever lie about that. And then we talked about how much Cooper is a part of our lives. How much we would miss him if he didn’t come home.

He reluctantly agreed in only a way that a brother can.

As we put him to bed that night, Jamie and I sat down in the living room and relaxed. I commented about how quiet it was. How different the house looked without Cooper’s piles. I commented on how it actually looked empty. We spoke about how different it felt without our little man. Lonely.

And I let myself think about a life without autism.

Without autism, my front and back doors are unlocked. My windows are open. The alarm is turned off.

Without autism, I am not always listening for the door, or a crash, or a scream. I am not ready to run. Or chase.

Without autism, I am relaxed. In a way that I never could be with Cooper home.

Without autism, I can move freely throughout my house. I don’t need to know where Cooper is at all times.

Without autism, my newborn baby can lie on the floor.

Without autism, I can walk out of the room. I can throw a load of laundry in. I can bring the garbage outside.

Without autism, my cushions and pillows stay on the couch. My lights stay on. My curtains stay open.

Without autism, my five year old can have his toys out without fear of them getting eaten or destroyed.

Without autism, my house is quiet. There are no train whistles, no Barney, no YouTube.

Without autism, I don’t say, ‘turn it down,’ a thousand times a day.

Without autism, I am not aware of the iPad battery life or WiFi strength. I don’t care if they are plugged in or charging.

Without autism, I can sit down. I can read a book. I can watch HGTV midday.

Without autism, I can sleep in. Our family can wake up slowly. We can take our time going downstairs. We can snuggle in bed.

Without autism, I can bring my other two children to a grocery store. We can run in a grab something.

Without autism, my son and I can go through a drive thru. We can go out for a treat. We can be spontaneous.

Without autism, I am not begging someone to watch Cooper so I can be with my other children.

Without autism, my stress feels almost gone. I feel so calm. I am not shushing my other two children. I am not walking on eggshells. I am not waiting for something bad to happen.

Without autism, I am not stepping on photos or over hoarding piles. My mail does not go missing. My refrigerator magnets stay in place. I can set something down and find it again.

Without autism, my toilets aren’t plugged.

Without autism, I don’t feel like I am playing referee all the time. Smiling. Laughing. Keeping the peace.

Without autism, I can go to my son’s hockey practice. I can sit in the stands. I can be one of the moms.

Without autism, my days are not filled with timers, noise canceling headphones, token boards and other tactics.

Without autism, we can be a family all together. We don’t split up. We go places together.

Without autism, I don’t have those moments of sadness peppered throughout my day. Wishing he would play, or talk, or tell me a story. I don’t say silent prayers.

Without autism, I can sit in the car with two of my children while dad runs into the grocery store.

Without autism, I don’t feel excluded. I get to leave my house. I feel social.

Without autism, my life is different.

I can’t believe how different our life would be without autism. Relaxed. Calm. Easy.

I let the guilt of those feelings wash over me. And quickly reminded myself that they are all very true. They aren’t embellished. They aren’t made up.

But, without autism, I’d be missing so much more. I let myself think about the things that really matter.

Without autism, I wouldn’t have a Cooper. The cutest, most adorable, kid ever.

Without autism, I wouldn’t laugh like I do now. I wouldn’t know his silly dances, or his sounds or his smile.  I wouldn’t know the joy a child can get from their reflection. Or a sound. Or a photo.

Without autism, I wouldn’t be someone’s person. I wouldn’t know the feeling of adoration and love that I do now.

Without autism, I wouldn’t know what it feels like to wake up with someone gently touching your face. And giggling.

Without autism, I wouldn’t know what it means to work towards a goal for days, months and even years, and celebrate when it finally happens.

Without autism, my life would be incomplete. It would be empty.

I know how lucky I am to have him. And I truly mean that. We are the lucky ones.

And we know the greatest love possible.

This mama will take the hard because it means I get the good too.

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