February 26, 2023
Weightless
When I share about parenting my autistic son, I often use the word ‘intense.’
Like you are in a crowded room and someone turns the temperature dial up bit by bit. Slowly at first. Then faster. Tick tick boom.
Or I’ve even said it’s a game of negotiation. Me talking him off or on the ledge.
There are no little things with his autism. Only big.
It’s like his mind won’t let his body be calm. Like they are at odds. And it comes out of him.
His body can’t stop moving. His green checkered Vans constantly kicking the chair in front of him.
His hands dancing in front of his face.
The volume on his iPad up and down and up again.
Laughter. So much laughter. Sounds. Repetitive behaviors.
At home, he is calm. In his own space and time.
But in public it’s different for him. As if he’s playing a game with no rules.
It feels intensified. For us too. Like we are under a parenting microscope.
The world peering in at us. Seeing us. Seeing him. Hearing him. Watching him. Taking it all in.
I often want to wrap my arms around him, and even do so at times, to protect him. My invisible armor keeping us hidden.
But today, on our three plus hour drive home we stopped for lunch. The kids wanted to move around so we made the decision to go in. To eat inside. Something we would normally never do.
I snapped this picture because it brought tears to my eyes. It caused me to pause.
For 35 minutes his body was calm. And he sat with us.
He let us chat. Waited for food. For seconds. For refills. Laughed at a burp. Tattled on his brother over spilled milk. Said no to ketchup. Threw away his trash.
There was no kicking of chairs. Or handfuls of hair. Or loud sounds.
He was just with us.
The weight of his autism isn’t always visible at times. I know that, because most days I help him carry it.
But as our family sat, amidst the calm, we felt weightless.
I just had to take the picture.
Weightless.
