While they trade stories
about soccer cleats by the door
and forgotten homework,
I memorize exits,
locks,
the sound of silence before a child runs.
Their motherhood is carpools,
mine is vigilance.
They pack snacks for practice,
I pack emergency plans
into every pocket of my mind.
They talk about milestones
like stepping stones..
first sleepover,
first school dance,
first time riding bikes alone.
I celebrate things no one sees:
a new food touched to lips,
a grocery trip without panic,
a haircut without tears,
five peaceful minutes in a loud room.
Their exhaustion is accepted.
Mine is questioned.
Because my child may not “look autistic”
while my whole nervous system
stands guard like a storm shelter.
They post smiling school pictures.
I carry grief beside gratitude,
love beside loneliness,
because motherhood can hold both at once.
I love my child with a fierceness
that has changed the shape of me.
But some days I ache
watching other mothers
move through worlds
I can never fully enter.
Still...
my child teaches me
that connection does not have to look typical
to be real.
That joy can flap its hands,
hum in circles,
speak in scripts,
or bloom quietly in borrowed moments.
So my motherhood looks different.
Not less.
Not wrong.
Just heavier in places
most people cannot see,
and more beautiful in ways
they may never understand.
Comments
Post a Comment