I am that mom you notice at the park, running around, hair a mess, and constantly adjusting my ponytail. I’m the one scaling the jungle gym and sliding down with my child nestled between my legs.
I see you, sitting with your friends, savoring your coffee while glancing in my direction. We’ve exchanged smiles and waves in passing. I can tell you’re kind — I wish I could join you for a chat over steaming cups, sharing laughs about our kids’ latest preschool antics.
As my son zips by, I catch glimpses of your children, all around the same age as mine, playing together. You wave me over, but I reply with a smile, “I can’t — I need to keep an eye on the little one.”
It’s not that I’m ignoring you or avoiding conversation; I’m not a helicopter mom, nor am I unfriendly. The reality is, my son has autism. He struggles to communicate and navigate his environment, often unaware of potential dangers.
I’m that mom who climbs every ladder, crawls through tunnels, and slides down every slide. I’m always encouraging my son, motivating him to keep trying, and I’m always prepared to run. I never take a break; my yearning to sit at your table is overshadowed by my responsibilities.
You might see me running and think I’m simply enjoying the moment, but it’s far more stressful than that. Leaving the house with my son is an endeavor, yet I do it because I want him to experience happiness. Honestly, I need to escape the confines of our home sometimes.
If you knew me better, you’d see that I’m always in tennis shoes — flip-flops wouldn’t cut it when chasing after him. I wear a tank top, even when it’s cold, to manage the sweat that comes with my constant movement. After a trip to the park, I feel like I’ve completed a marathon. I don’t carry a purse or a water bottle, as I need my hands free at all times.
In a short span, my son and I have explored every inch of the playground. I’ve scoped out the area like a security professional, identifying all exits and potential hazards. I’m acutely aware of every small object that could go in his mouth.
I’m always ready to leave at a moment’s notice, knowing that sensory overload can lead to unpredictable behaviors. I’ve seen it happen before — strangers shouting at my son for actions he doesn’t fully comprehend. I try to stay one step ahead.
People often tell me I’m an incredible mom. During a previous encounter at this very park, a fellow parent remarked on my ability to manage everything, joking that my son keeps me fit. Her comment stung a bit; it highlighted the differences between our experiences.
I watch you and your friends enjoying a picnic, laughter filling the air as your kids eat and sit peacefully. I can’t help but feel envious. What I wouldn’t give to relax and enjoy a moment with my son and new friends. If circumstances were different, perhaps we could bond.
As I glance your way, I momentarily lose track of my son, who has wandered to the sandbox. I see one of your friends scoop her toddler away just as my son sits down. Initially offended, I soon realize that it was a wise move as I watch him grab sand, one handful to eat and another to toss.
I dive into the sandbox just as he jumps up, ready to dash again. He’s a sensory seeker, always in motion and often struggling to engage with play. I take a moment to appreciate the beautiful day, but I’m too preoccupied with my son to truly enjoy it.
I see you head to the restroom. I can’t do that with my son; public restrooms are a challenge I can’t navigate. I’ve been holding it since we arrived, another reason I leave the water bottle behind.
“Mom, watch me!” I hear from other children, and it hits me. Those words have never been spoken to me by my son. He’s nearly seven, and his severe autism means he doesn’t express those feelings.
I notice kids trying to peek at his iPad, and a few parents giving me disapproving looks. I understand their confusion; why does my child need a device at the park? Sometimes, it’s his comfort tool, and some days, I don’t have the strength to take it away. I’m just grateful to be out of the house.
While you may see me as an invincible mom, there are days I wonder how to keep going. Last night was restless; I was up late worrying about therapies and other stressors. Today, I’m exhausted but must conserve my energy to ensure a smooth exit when it’s time to leave.
We share similarities, you and I. Both of us have two children the same age, yet you’re able to sit and enjoy the day while I feel isolated, even amid a crowd. My son and I are surrounded by laughter and joy, but we remain alone in our struggles.
And just like that, my son begins to melt down. I lift him onto my shoulder and head for the exit. You wave as I pass, but I can’t respond — my hands are full. I think I hear you say, “Let’s chat next time you’re here!”
As I glance back, I see another mom placing her toddler back in the sandbox. Maybe it’s a coincidence. I nod and smile through my tears, feeling the weight of my son on my shoulder. How will I manage when he’s ten?
I look back at you and say, “Sure, let’s catch up soon.” We both know it’s just a polite exchange. Unless you’re willing to lace up your shoes and keep pace with me, it likely won’t happen.
I wait until my son is safely buckled in the car before I finally let the tears flow. I look back at the park, wondering if the other moms are relieved to see us go.
I am that mom.
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Summary: This piece reflects the experience of a mother navigating the challenges of parenting a child with autism in a public setting. It touches on feelings of loneliness, the struggles of balancing social interactions, and the constant vigilance required to ensure her child’s safety and happiness.
Keyphrase: Autism parenting at the playground
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