Our World is Different

This morning you woke me up. The same way you do every single day.

You come puttering in. Heavy feet. Full hands.

Already giggling.

You stand next to my face. You touch my cheek.

Although you know that I am already awake.

My mind and heart are so in tune to you Cooper that I swear I know the second you open your eyes.

I joke that we are like an old married couple.

You put my glasses on my face. And put my phone in my hand.

And you wait. Staring. An inch from my face.

I tell you 5 more minutes.

You wait. You stare.

I get up.

There is no 5 more minutes in your world.

I watch you gather up your 6 or 7 blankets, paper, photos, books and Pokémon cards and make your way for the stairs.

You sit. And wait. Just as you always do.

You know that before we make our way downstairs I need to check on the baby. And shut Sawyer’s door.

Once I’m done you stand up and look at me.

And I immediately say, sit down buddy. Go down on your butt. You are going to trip.

Which you do. Because you knew I was going to say it. Just like I do every morning.

You make your way down, leaving a trail of treasures as you go.

A photo of me on my wedding day.

A Pete the Cat book.

The Valentines Day card I gave Jamie this year. Inside I wrote…’Thank you. Thank you for being here with me.’

You stole the card the second dad opened it. You love cards so much.

Each stair is now peppered with a different item. I step over them as I go down.

You don’t seem to care. You have enough.

We make our way to the kitchen. You grab my coffee cup and point to the coffee maker.

You know that I will start the coffee, sit down, always in the recliner, and turn the news on. Always channel 11.

You will sit at my feet.

Together we will wait for the rest of the crew to get up and for the day to start.

I will drink my coffee.

You will show me your trains. You will laugh.

You will dance at your reflection in the window.

You will marvel at my feet and at an elephant on your Kindle.

Every morning you make me pretend that my arm is an elephant trunk. You need me to do it I guess.

You ask me to go to a farm.

I smile and say no pal…you have school today.

You grab my cheek, turn my head, put the Kindle right in front of my face, and smile.

You grunt. You squeal.

You tell me in your own way that you really need to go to a farm today.

I remind you that it’s -10 degrees outside.

You don’t seem to care.

At one point you climb on my lap. You give me the 2 minutes of you that I need.

I swear you know when I am sad. It’s amazing really.

And then you are gone. Upstairs. Getting more things.

I let myself soak up the silence. The quiet.

I let myself think about our relationship.

I am your constant. Your person. Your human.

You come to me for every single one of your needs. You follow me around. I am always in your sight.

If I am home, you are near me.

You are 8 now kid. You should be out playing. Riding your bike. Building snow forts with your friends. Chasing girls.

Like your brother does.

He has a dozen friends that live near us. They should be your friends too. And most of them are your age. 8.

8 years old. Doing what 8 year old boys do.

But you, you don’t care.

You choose to be in the house.

You choose me. Because I am your person. I am your constant.

And you have autism. And the world is a confusing place.

8 year old boys don’t make sense to you.

I have a feeling that it will be like this forever. You and me.

One of us drinking coffee and watching the news. And one of us drinking a Capri Sun and watching trains. Dancing to their reflection. Laughing at a sound. Twirling like an elephant.

I want you to know that I am scared buddy. Really scared.

Scared that I am not strong enough. Scared that I won’t be around forever.

It’s hitting me lately. Like a freight train.

I think it’s because I am watching you next to your 4 month old brother and seeing the similarities.

In the bath tub for example.

Everything in your mouths. Watching you both like a hawk. Never taking my eye away. You should be able to sit in a bath tub alone by now.

Scrubbing both your heads. Washing your bodies.

8 year old boys are supposed to grow up. Moms aren’t supposed to dress them and bathe them forever. They aren’t supposed to sit at our feet forever.

But our world is different.

Some days I am perfectly fine with it. With the constant. With the repetition.

With our relationship seemingly frozen in time while everyone around us grows up.

But some days, I’m scared.

And I am really trying to take it all in lately. I need to feel it. I need to acknowledge it.

I hear you paddling back down the stairs.

And then you are back. You found a book. A Barney farm book.

You hand it to me. And smile. That cute little coy smile.

And we are back to talking about farms.

Interested in writing for Finding Cooper’s Voice? LEARN MORE

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.