That’s not me.
I mean…not really.
Well, not all the time.
Okay SOME
times.
Fine.
That is me…word for every mother-lovin’ word. Not so much with the two older kids. I’d say with them I’m a solid “Stage 3-Momma Bear” but I’ve never hit “Stage 4 Chopper” with them. I don’t know that I’ve ever felt as though I’ve had to. Fortunately for both of them they are very relatable, likable, social, athletic, healthy kids. They talk to me and tell me more than I necessarily want to know on any given day. I don’t have to interpret for anyone. I don’t have to defend. I don’t have to take note of every single aspect of their behavior. I don’t have to preface every sports season with a coach 1-on-1. I don’t have to keep copious notes of convos with teachers. I don’t have a separate folder for each of them with anything and everything health-related.
So why do I feel the need to be hyper-vigilant with
Ben? Some would say, and many often do,
that it comes with the territory when parenting an ASD child. But Ben is high functioning and if you saw
him playing in his room you wouldn’t think he was any different than my other
two kids.
Usually.
Am I waiting for the other shoe to drop? Am I that fearful of the horror stories I
hear from other parents that I hover too closely hoping to intercept? Or am I pouring myself into his world, into
protecting him, into advocating for him to avoid everything I feel like I’m
failing at in life? Is this really about
Ben? I would like to think it is. The very thought of someone hurting Ben feels
so imminent, and is enough to keep me up at night. Most nights.
And maybe…just maybe…if I can win
at keeping him safe and avoiding hurt then I am not a complete and utter
failure. In at least one thing. And God, I need to know I’m not failing
him.
I’ve mentioned before that I struggle with depression and it
comes and goes in waves. And in recent
months…there have been waves repeatedly leaping over my head, the undertow grabbing
hold of me and teasing as it allows for a brief moment of sunlight at the
surface before enveloping me again. And
again. If I consume my days with
researching health concerns and educational resources and therapies and (I
could go on and on)…then I’m silencing that voice that tells me I’m not doing
enough. I’m not good enough. I’m not living up to my potential. That phrase epitomizes my life. I’ve heard it for years. It resonates to this day.
And in my efforts to NOT fail at this one thing…this one
very important, delicate, vulnerable thing…my Ben…I’m isolating myself. In my attempt to block my own inner voice,
I’m also blocking out my friends, my husband and God forbid, my other two
children. What kind of friend, wife and
mom does that?
Me.
It is taking serious effort on my part to pull myself from
this tenacious undercurrent. I’ve
started attending Church again.
Oftentimes alone. And I’m
listening…listening like I’ve never listened before. I leave with a take-away every single
time. And it’s helping.
The Gentleman, of course, has been patient…I realize I am
not an easy person to endure. And
somehow he is still here. With a gentle
redirection every now and then. And
thank God he knows when not to be so subtle.
With an invitation to reality and the events going on around me that I
clearly am not acknowledging.
But sometimes I need tangible evidence that it’s okay to
give Ben some space and focus on something else. I’m hard-headed that way.
This Spring Ben decided he wanted to play baseball. As you can imagine my insides literally began
crocheting themselves in intricate knots.
He
has ADHD…there is no way in HELL he’ll be able to withstand an entire inning in
the outfield without touching the ball. He hates when people look at him. How will he handle being on display while up to bat?
What if he doesn’t make friends?
What if the coach isn’t nice to him?
What if nobody GETS him??? Because they won’t…I just know it.
The Gentleman listened.
And he rubbed my back. And he
told me that Ben would be fine.
But what does he
know? I mean I WANT him to be fine. But I just don’t know if baseball is his
sport. 
Then the season started.
And ya know what? He played
WELL. The coach? He was fantastic. Did Ben meltdown every single time he struck
out? You bet he did. In the beginning of the season I never sat
far from the dugout because I knew that I would need to be nearby to help him
through or at least prevent his teammates from intensifying said
meltdowns. As the season went on,
though, the coaches started doing more of the comforting with Ben and I tried
ever so hard to keep my butt in my seat.
(MOST of the time.) Some of you
know how hard that was. SO DAMN HARD. Excruciating.
Before I knew it, that urge began to subside. I was witnessing Ben gain a little more
control over his behavior, his response to loss. I watched the coaches learn Ben…and choose
their battles. When Ben struck out,
which wasn’t often, he was allowed a turn to “rest” in the dugout while the
rest of the team hit the outfield. They
were “getting” him. Holy shit. Getting him!
When the coach realized that Ben didn’t understand the concept of an RBI
and was taking his inability to make it across home plate as a personal failure,
he knelt down and eye to eye explained it to Ben. When they realized he made it through a game
with no meltdowns they rewarded him by having him lead the team in counting
down in the huddle afterward. By the
end of the season it wasn’t just the coaches taking him in…it was the other
parents too. Every single time Ben was
on deck to bat, the parents began cheering for him, clapping, screaming his
name in encouragement. And if he didn’t
do as well as he wanted to, those same parents were still cheering him on the
way back to the bench…as he dragged his bat in the dirt, head hanging low. They knew that just because he didn’t chant
in the field like the rest of the kids, it didn’t mean he wasn’t engaged in the
game. They knew that just because he
didn’t cheer on his teammates from the dugout, it didn’t mean he didn’t
care…Ben was always the first to run to a teammate when they got hurt. They know he has heart. Sometimes nothing but.
And in the second to last game of the season…as the coach
had the boys huddled on the empty diamond congratulating them on a season well
played, prepping them for the championship game ahead it was then that the
coach recognized Ben in front of his team.
He announced that although they don’t typically give away a game ball,
they would in fact be giving THAT game’s ball to Ben. For hitting every time he batted. For running four players in. For not melting down. For contributing to such a big win. For being Ben. And while attempting to take some pictures of
the boys in their after-win glow, I swiftly slid my sunglasses back down over
my eyes to hide the tears. And they were
a-streamin’, you guys.
The Gentleman was right.
Dammit. Ben was fine…and he had
fun. Hear me? He HAD FUN.
Worth it in my book any damn day.
And no one was out to get him, or see him fail, or treat him unfairly,
or make him feel inadequate. Quite the
opposite. It renewed my belief that I
don’t have to build him up by myself.
That I can have faith in people…in his peers…in the leaders in his
life. It’s not Ben and me against the
world. Sometimes I forget that.
Getting through that season, watching him grow, watching
myself let go, I realized that if I never let him experience these things, if I
never feel the risk is worth the reward, then my boy will never ever feel
complete accomplishment. And he needs to
feel that. He needs to be proud of
himself. He needs to see the looks in
our faces when he endures something we didn’t think he could withstand.
