A Mile in My Shoes

I've recently become a fan of the television show Parenthood, which explores the interrelationships of three generations within a family. Most intriguing to me in that show is the storyline of "Max," a 10-year-old recently diagnosed with Asperger's Syndrome, and of the efforts of his immediate and extended family to understand and deal with Max's special needs.

This week on Parenthood, the family patriarch Zeke took his grandson Max on an overnight camping trip. Zeke had expected that the camping trip would be just like every other outing he had ever taken with his sons and other grandsons; however, as any parent of a child on the spectrum has already surmised, things didn't go very smoothly. Zeke eventually found himself frantically dialing his son's (Max's father's) cell phone for advice and help as Max kicked at the dirt and repeatedly screamed, "I want to go home! I want to go home"!

The next morning, Zeke returned home with Max. In that poignant scene, Max went inside with his mother while Zeke stayed outside and spoke to his son about his camping experience with Max. He commented to his son that before the camping trip, he hadn't really understood what it was like for his son and daughter-in-law as they struggled every day to help Max feel safe and connected, but having had this experience, he had a whole new appreciation for what it was like to raise an autistic child.

I suddenly found myself welling with emotion, longing to have friends or family members in my own life who understand what it's like--every day, every hour--to raise a child with autism.

A week or two ago, I thought I'd motivate Ben and his older brother to behave by offering them the chance to go to Walmart and pick out a video game together. They did well throughout the day with the expectations I had set, and so we went to the store. As I should have predicted, though, the boys could not agree on a video game, and as the tension outside the glass video case became palpable, I eventually chose one myself that I thought they could both enjoy, and herded them toward the checkout. Ben began to shout, "No! You said we could pick the game! You said we could choose, but you chose the game! But you said we could choose! That's not fair, mom! It's not fair!" And suddenly we were in a meltdown of Vesuvian proportions. Ben went after his brother first, pushing, punching, kicking. Then he started spitting at him, and then at me, still screaming and flailing.

What was most upsetting to me during those eons that it took me to get the game purchased and get Ben outside to the car wasn't the meltdown itself--I've been through hundreds of those. What hurt was the looks of the other people in the store. They stared at Ben in shock, and then turned their glares to me. From every gaping mouth I could almost hear them whisper, "What kind of mother raises a child like that?" I could see the words "Failure--Terrible--Shameful" etched across every judgmental face. I just wanted to scream, "He's autistic! I'm doing the best I can! Stop judging me!"

But of course, that's not reasonable. All I could do was finish my business and flee as quickly as possible. I desperately needed to find just one person who understood, so I went home and posted an update on Facebook about my experience. When the mother of another autistic child posted, "Been there, done that" on my profile, I was overcome with gratitude--four simple words that assured me that I was not alone, and that someone else understood.

I am surrounded by family and friends who support me, and who love me and my family. But most of them don't get it--no matter how much they want to, or how willing they are to commiserate with me when days are difficult. Because, even when they know on a cognitive level that I cannot work with Ben like I do with my other kids, they still can't mask the look that eases onto their faces when Ben walks naked through the living room in front of visitors, or when he begins a litany of swearing and spitting, and I can see in their eyes that they think I am a bit too permissive, or that I'm not disciplining appropriately. They don't mean to feel that way, I know. But they cannot understand what every day is like, and how every moment I am doing everything in my power to unlock the mysteries of my son's mind enough that I can engage with him in some kind of meaningful way.

Ben is an enormous blessing in our family's life. I adore him, and admire him, and appreciate every quirky, unexpected insight that he shares with us. Nevertheless, during those meltdown moments, I would not wish his challenges on any set of parents. Most days, parenting an autistic child is a lonely, uncharted journey. And sometimes I think I'd give almost anything to have someone--anyone--walk a mile in my shoes, and finally understand the challenges of raising a child on the autism spectrum.