I'm doing it again. The thing I preach to all of you NOT to do. Getting waaaaay ahead of myself with worry, fears and "what if's" of the future. Yeah, I know we all have to plan for the future, but, you don't need to ruminate to the point of madness. My brain is like a runaway train and I'd like to get off. Now. No, seriously, right now.

It started with a glass of wine and a crab cake. I know what you're thinking, how can anything bad start with a glass of wine and a crab cake? It's hard to believe, but, that's when the conversation started and ever since then, the crazy train has left the station.

My husband and I were enjoying a night out with good food and wine. Maybe it was the wine (it's always nice to have the wine be the fall guy), but, chances are this has been weighing on my mind recently in light of a few conversations I've had with mothers of adult autistic children. What happens next?

While our kids our school age, we know what the future holds...math, reading, writing, gym, etc, but, after graduation, when you are done celebrating and the cap and gown have been tucked away with pride, the struggle to find employment for an autistic individual can be daunting. It is real. It is difficult. And it is currently driving my train.

Thirty six hours before Ryan even began high school, I looked over my glass of wine at my husband and I blurted out, "I'm worried Ryan's social struggles will prevent him from getting a job". Gulp of wine. Then another. There, I said it. Cats out of the bag and it jumped on the crazy train with me and has left the station,

Always my voice of reason and the one who can stop my crazy train in its tracks, my husband said, "Yeah, he might". What?! No! Clearly he forgot his role. My husband's job is to pat my hand and say, "Now, now dear let's not get carried away, he will be fine' then grab a tow hitch and pull my crazy ass back to the station, but, he didn't. Instead, he boarded the crazy train with his wine and sat right next to me. I almost chucked my wine glass at his head (not the crab cake though...I'm not that crazy).

Damn.

I know, I know, I always preach and lecture while shaking my finger at you that you need to see your present child because you will miss so much worrying about your future child, yet, here I am, the hypocrite, obsessing and fretting about future Ryan for days. If he gets an interview will he make eye contact long enough to impress them? If they say something funny and he doesn't get it, so he doesn't laugh, will they think he's rude? If he gets the job and is unable to participate in the office water cooler banter will his co-workers think he is rude and standoffish? And on, and on, and on. (Insert train whistle here.)
 
Since my husband is clearly not towing me back to the station, I have had to pull myself back on my own. I don't have a crystal ball, so, I don’t know if Ryan's inability to pick up social cues or his struggle with back and forth conversation will impede him from getting the job of his dreams or any job for that matter. What I do know is that I have to continue giving Ryan the support he needs NOW. I have to be here for him TODAY, so that I can prepare him as best I can for TOMORROW and in order to do that, I need to try not to let my brain board the train and go off the rails.

And even though this is not the first time I have gone on this train (nor will it be the last), I have to remember before I board again, that from the very first time I heard The A Word, I have been helping Ryan find his way little by little, day by day, track by track. And this AWEsome boy has proven to me time and time again, that his tomorrows belong to him, he is the conductor, not me. Yes I will worry, yes I will occasionally lose my mind, but, through it all, I must remember that it is my job to support him and advocate for him then sit back and see where the ride takes him.

Oh, above all else, I better remember to practice what I preach.

High school.

​I can't even believe those words go with this face. But they do. In less than two weeks my sweet faced toddler will be in high school.

Yeah, I know he's not a toddler anymore and he didn't just go from 3 to 14 in the blink of an eye, but, my gosh it sure feels like he did.

It feels like just yesterday he was running from room to room scripting whatever Thomas the Tank Engine VHS Tape he was currently obsessed with or hiding in the bathroom from Santa Claus. It feels like yesterday I was wringing my hands over the transition from daycare to kindergarten. It feels like yesterday I was worried about the chaos and social cast system of middle school and how he was going to survive.

Guess what? Yesterday is gone. Finished. Over. And now, here I am today, worrying about the dreaded high school cafeteria, also known as (shudder) "lunch".

Autism or no autism, the high school cafeteria, a place designed to give kids a a break from the stresses of Honors Calculus feels more like a battlefield. Sure, during that 41 minute "break" kids are no longer worried about which formula they need to solve problem #5, but, in the high school cafeteria, one wrong move, one wrong "Can I sit here?" and your kid's lunch and their day can blow up right in their face.

There are unforeseen dangers everywhere. Tables that a lowly freshman can not sit. People that a lowly freshman can not speak to. These newcomers can walk in thinking they know just which side of the battle they are on, and hell, they may even be confident that that are actually going to win the battle, then, boom, in one instant the battlefield rules change and your kid finds himself face first in a pile of instant mashed potatoes.

Even for THE coolest kids, the lunchroom can get ugly.

Now add a dash of autism to this battlefield and, well, no matter how much you have prepared your little soldier for each and every skirmish, chances are an autistic kid is not going to escape the lunchroom unscathed. In fact, they may leave with quite a few battle wounds and hightail it to Canada.

Just like there are reasons some young men can be exempt from heading off to battlefields, a teenager with autism may be exempt from dining in the war zone called "the cafeteria". After all, their unique needs certainly qualifies them to dine elsewhere. The noises, smells, social norms and chaos of the cafeteria may be too much, so eating lunch in the library is certainly a much safer choice.

Ryan has been given the option to be exempt from this so called battleground. He could take his exact same lunch he packs every single day and go sit quietly in the library. Alone.

I struggle with that choice. I want to protect Ryan from the imminent danger of the cafeteria, but at the same time, the world is full of battlefields that he must learn to navigate even at the risk of getting hurt. The world does not give you a pass to the library when things get tough. Not to mention, if Ryan finds a table that accepts him, a table that is safe, then I'm doing a great disservice to all of the teens at that table by tucking Ryan safely in the library and not giving them the opportunity to see all he can offer to them during their 41 minute "break".

Each and every kid is different, so each and every parent must decide which battlefields are worth the risk. I decided to take the matter out of my hands and put it in the hands that will be holding the cafeteria tray.

When I told Ryan his options, he said, "I am anxious, but, I want to try." So he will.

In eleven days, I will prepare that once sweet faced toddler for the various skirmishes that may occur in the high school cafeteria and try to help him escape unharmed. I will anxiously await word from him (or a few upperclassmen I have on retainer in an espionage capacity) to see how lunch goes. And no matter the results, whether he winds up feeling like he lost the battle or like he escaped without a single scratch, I will be proud of him for trying.

Ryan is no longer the toddler hiding under the sliding board for me to save him. He no longer needs his General Mother to protect him on every single battleground, because Ryan is learning to fight for himself. And win or lose, that is an accomplishment worthy of some type of medal.