My Motherhood

Being a mom is the biggest blessing that I have ever been given. It is also the most challenging adventure that I have ever been on.

When I found out that I was pregnant, I dreamed of all the fun things my son and I were going to do. I dreamed what my son was going to accomplish.

And then one day, I realized my dreams were just dreams, and that my reality was different than what I had ever imagined it was going to be.

Motherhood looks different than what I imagined.

What I thought motherhood was going to be was playing with my son, laughing with my son, reasoning with my son, talking with my son. However, my reality is different.

My reality is autism, and autism runs my life.

I never imagined that my child would be 1 in 50 children born with this neurological disorder. A disorder that is practically impossible to define because it is so unique to each person who is diagnosed with it.

“When you have seen one child with autism, you have seen one child with autism” is the best way to describe it.

But the day my son stopped talking, because in fact he did speak at one point, I had a feeling that something wasn’t right. Something happened. I can still hear the voices in my head.

“You’re crazy.” “He will talk when he is ready.” “My son didn’t talk until he was three.”

These were the words that I continuously heard, over and over again, but I went with my gut, my “motherly instinct.” I sought out opinions, evaluations, therapies.

I go back and play my entire pregnancy in my head. “Was it this?” “Was it that?” I ask myself these questions as I am replaying the last three and a half years.

I was desperately reaching for an answer. I wanted an answer so bad.

And when the day came when I got an answer, I remember just sitting in the doctor’s office. I could hear the doctor’s voice explaining the results of her evaluation in the background.

The office was so small for four people to be gathered in it at one time. The florescent lights were beaming down from above, and making a subtle buzzing noise.

The air felt uncomfortably warm and musty, causing me to draw my attention away from the doctor and onto my son. All I could focus on was my son.

I listened to the rustling of toys as he was lining them up in a perfectly straight line on the office floor. Completely unaware of the three other people in the room with him.

He picked up a toy one at a time, and carefully interrogated it by looking at every inch of it before adding it to the “lineup,” which at that point was about six toys long. He was so content, without a care in the world.

Watching him brought peace to my mind for a moment, until I heard the voice again that drew me out of my trance.

“Do you have any questions?” the doctor said to me. The only question I had was, “why?” But I know, that is not an answer she could give me.

That question, “why?” is one that no parent of a child with autism gets. The “why,” much like autism, is a mystery.

I have spent the last year consuming myself in my school work, in work, and in my son, so that I could stay busy. If I stay busy then I won’t fall apart.

I have to keep it together because if I fall apart, then I have to feel all of the emotions that come with being a parent of a child with a disability. But there are days when I can’t, and my walls come crumbling down.

I ask God “why?”, I get angry, I cry, I allow myself to feel the pain, the devastation, the grief. Then those feelings lead to feelings of guilt and ungratefulness.

When my days are like this, I can feel my mind working. My mind is like a battlefield; both sides fully armed, ready to fight against one another. One side, armed knowing I shouldn’t feel this way.

My son is here, he is happy, healthy, and thriving in his own unique way. I need to be grateful that my son is here with me, for I know some parents don’t get to say the same thing all the time, some parents lose their children.

The other side however, is the side that is armed with all of the emotions. Emotions such as anger and sadness.

So, the battle in my head is continuously raging on, like a never-ending war.

When I raise the white flag, call a truce, and my head is calm I am able to see clearly. I see my son for who he is and not for what he’s not.

My son is Gabriel. My son is loving, happy, funny, creative, caring, driven, stubborn, and so much more.

My son’s laughter will leave you with a smile on your face even in the midst of what can be described as an awful day. His energy is like electricity that pours out onto those around him, providing them with eagerness to join him in play.

My son is more than the label of autism, for autism doesn’t define him, rather it is like a characteristic that helps describe him.

Too often, I get lost in my thoughts and dreams of what I thought motherhood was going to be, what it was “supposed” to be. And when I do this I lose out on being the best mom I can be to my son.

I am a mom, and my motherhood is unique just like Gabriel. I am his voice, his protector, his advocate, his best friend. He is my happiness, my heart, my soul, my everything.

I don’t know the answer to the why, I may never know. But even if I did, or even if I could go back in time, I wouldn’t.

I wouldn’t change my son, he is perfect the way he is. I believe in God, and believe that He holds a piece to the puzzle, and in this is where I find my peace. God has a reason for everything, and I must trust that.

Maybe someday I will get an answer.

Until then, I take motherhood day-by-day, and sometimes moment-by-moment, trying to be the best mom I can be.

Written by, Julie Lenzen

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