​I sat at my bestie's kitchen counter and tried to put into words my feelings as I fought hard to hold back the tears. I rambled, I stammered. I said things like, "I know it might not bother him the way it bothers me..." and "I know kids might not see him as a close friend..." and "...after all these years, it still feels like a knife in my heart". She nodded, she empathized, she understood. Then in seven simple words, she stopped my rambling, "You want someone to think of him."

No more rambling, no more stammering. In seven simple words, my bestie summed up the words in my heart that my brain couldn't seem to muster. Yes, it's that simple, I want someone to think of him.

To parents loving a child with autism, I know you will get how profound those words were to me. The words may not seem Maya Angelou like for many of you, but, for moms who “get it”, we would like that quote on a bracelet, in a meme and for this mom, those seven words might possibly be my next tattoo.
 
Like every parent everywhere, we want someone, just one person, to think of our child. For parents loving a child with autism, we have watched repeatedly how those someones may want to try with our child, but, they just don't quite know how to do it, so they quickly give up, walk away and stop trying which leaves our kids isolated and alone. Frequently.  

We have also watched our children try with those someones too and more often than not, our kids walk away too...feeling confused, overwhelmed and ready to run back to that isolation. Until the next time they sum up their courage to try again.

I want someone to think of him and that has been all I have wanted since the first time we heard The A Word.

When I found him at daycare under the slide alone not knowing how to play, I wanted someone to think of him and sit silently next to him digging in the dirt.

When he stood by the doors of his elementary school waiting for recess to end so he no longer had to worry about bugs, thunderstorms, and wind, I wanted someone to think of him and stand by the door next to him while he waited for the bell to ring.

When he sat alone with only his mother, the chaperone, on every single field trip, I wanted someone to think of him and come sit next to us at our empty table.

When he invited friends to his birthday parties I wanted someone to think of him and reciprocate the invitation when their birthday celebration came around.

When he struggles with what to say or do next in a social setting, I want someone to think of him by helping him out with prompts or suggestions on how to respond.

When he doesn't say or do the "right" thing, I want someone to think of him and suggest what he should say or do the next time so he isn't afraid to try.

When he pulls away because he fears rejection or some type of social blunder, I want someone to think of him by always standing by his side and making him feel like he belongs and that he is not less.
 
When he struggles with initiating a conversation among his peers, I want someone to think of him and talk to him about Pokemon or Minecraft, his safety net, so that he will feel like he belongs somewhere and that someone cares about his interests. 
 
When the musical, the play, the chorus recital or the school year ends, I want someone to think of him and ask him to join them for pizza or a movie or better yet, some Pokemon raids.

When he feels less, I want someone to think of him and assure him he is more by accepting him and being his friend.

I want someone to think of him. 

And yes, I'm aware that these statements all begin with "I" want, not "He" wants, and I don’t proclaim to know what Ryan wants at all times, but, I do know that he has felt invisible, that he has felt isolated and alone and that there are times, HE wants someone to think of him.

We had yet another college visit for my oldest son Kyle this week. As any mother who has been part of this tedious, emotion filled process knows, there is a combination of sadness and joy. Sadness, as you wonder how it's even possible that your little bird is ready to flee the nest, and joy, as you happily anticipate just how far his wings will take him.  

As we stroll along these foreign campus grounds, my mind wanders to scary places like, "Will he do too many tap hits at a kegger and kiss a girl who just ate peanut butter and go into anaphylactic shock?" and happy places like, "Will he find his future wife here...the woman who will give me beautiful grandchildren...many, many years from now?" As my mind races from sadness to joy like an uncoupled railway car, I try not to imagine the emptiness I will feel in our home without Kyle's loud, vibrant voice and presence, a presence that is so similar to my own that it makes my LOL as frequently as it irritates me.

As for the baby sister, Emma will miss Kyle terribly because he is the brother that connects with her, he is the brother who playfully teases her and loves her with all his heart, he is the brother who holds all three of them together. Like a coupler that holds two rail cars securely together, Kyle has always been the connector that has coupled Ryan and Emma together, keeping them from drifting too far apart. ​Without their coupler, I worry about just how far they will drift.

Ryan and Emma are so different, their rail cars filled with goods that neither are interested in or understands and without Kyle coupling them, I think those goods will become more diverse and less understood thus causing their cars to drift farther and farther apart. In some weird, twisted part of my brain, I have thought, well, maybe uncoupled, Ryan and Emma will bump into each other in a horrific crash causing their goods to spill all over the tracks and getting so intermixed that they will have to find a way to clean the mess up together. In doing so, maybe they will recognize the value of one another's goods and see that there is a way to stay close without the coupler holding them together.

I understand that with or without autism some siblings just don't connect. There may be no rhyme or reason, but, the connection is just not there. In many ways, I think Ryan has never forgiven Emma for arriving in his world, a world at the age of five he was just starting to slowly understand, and so he does not try to connect. It's hard for Emma to understand so she tries, time and time again, but, I realize that a moment may come when she stops trying to connect, when she see that there is no point crashing a train car against another train car with no coupler in sight to hitch them together.  

Without their coupler, Ryan and Emma may drift even farther apart and as hard as it is for me to accept that, I may have to, without necessarily pointing the finger at autism. Just like the world had to accept Gwyneth Paltrow and Chris Martin uncoupling, I too may have to accept that Ryan and Emma may consciously uncouple and even though "they love each other very much, they will remain seperate". There are no bad guys, no one to blame, just two individuals riding on seperate tracks.

Next fall when Kyle heads off to college, I may be so consumed with my own adjustment to the change in the dynamics of our home that my worries of his departure uncoupling Ryan and Emma, may come much later (after I stop spending 24 hours a day obsessing over peanut butter kisses and tap hits). And perhaps in that time, when I am trying to adjust and uncurl from the fetal position, Ryan and Emma may or may not find a way to connect without Kyle's presence. Only time will tell and as I watch my oldest son, my baby boy, strolling from campus to campus, one thing I do know, I most certainly can not control time.

Along with figuring out this mother son thing over the years, I have also figured out that when it comes to love, kids, and yes, even autism, never say "never". Unless of course it is "NEVER kiss a girl who just ate peanut butter", to your severely allergic son, then "never" definitely applies.

The warmth of the sun on my face, the smell of hot dogs in the air, the twinge in my aging back from metal bleachers, the sound of laughter and shouts of "wear it" from voices that once belonged to boys and that now belong to men echoing off the dugout walls, and then finally, the crack of of the bat. Yes, baseball season is in full swing and after a winter that felt like it would never end, I for one, love it. 

As an old timer softball player married to an old timer baseball player, the ball field is a place of enjoyment for our family. My husband and I had both hoped with the birth of our first son, that the love of the game would be passed on in the gene pool. It didn't take long for our wishes to prove true. My oldest son, Kyle, has been throwing, catching, and hitting a ball since he was able to stand. In fact, his first full sentence at the age of 12 months (he is a gifted gabber like his mother), was,“Where da ball?”. 

As a junior on his high school Varsity baseball team, my first born has strangely become a starting left fielder. It's weird seeing him out there, because my son has spent his entire baseball career as a middle infielder, a position he could play in his sleep (well, not really, that would be rather dangerous).  Who knew the boy who loved to "turn two" would feel an even bigger rush throwing a kid out from left field at the plate? Regardless of where Kyle plays on his Varsity baseball team, or his Legion baseball team, to this mother, he has always been and will always be, my relief pitcher. 

Sometimes my ball player needs an inning or two to get the job done, and sometimes he is the closer. He steps up to the mound, throws three pitches and we have a victory in the record books. With college looming over the baseball diamond for my baseball player, I fear that without my back up, the seasons ahead could be long and lonely.

As with so many things in life, sometimes we need back up. The second string quarterback stands on the sidelines at the ready when the starting quarterback has thrown one too many interceptions. When the starting point guard pulls a hammy sprinting down court, you have the kid on the bench, anxiously waiting for the coach to give him the nod. The theater understudy, who has worked as hard as the lead actress memorizing her lines, anxiously awaits, and silently prays, that the lead gets laryngitis so the understudy finally gets her shot in the spotlight. And in baseball, you have the relief pitcher, the guy who comes in when the starting pitcher is worn out, has lost speed, or can no longer throw a strike. The relief pitcher, who is fresh and ready to go, steps on the mound, throws a curveball and saves the day.

As a mom, I am the starting pitcher. I play most of the game, regardless of the condition of my arm, or how tired I am, but, some days I need back up, especially when it comes to my middle son, Ryan, who has an Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD) diagnosis. Ryan is a smart, loving, wonderful 13 year old boy, but, some days, when I am tired, when I have thrown as many strikes as I can and I am still struggling to keep the lead, I need to take a seat on the bench.

I get up early, pack the same lunch EVERY SINGLE DAY, make sure the homework is done, email the teachers, check for bees, check for thunderstorms, check for scratchy tags in shirts, tie the shoes just so and get everyone where they need to be, inning, after inning. I may see more playtime, but, it is big brother who is called from the bull pen when I can no longer get the job done. Big brother is the one person, my younger son calls “friend” and the one person who is called in when I’m beat, broken, and can no longer throw the ball across the plate. 

Big brother gets the math that mom stopped understanding in 3rd grade. Big brother knows the teenage lingo and informs his little brother about what’s cool and what’s not. Big brother sees the next impending storm looming over the horizon and helps his little brother take cover. Big brother senses when the game is about to be lost and steps up to the mound, throws a few strikes and saunters back to the dugout with his biggest fan glowing in the victory.

As my oldest son, aka, my relief pitcher, quickly approaches the end of his junior year, with SAT’s, ACT's and college visits on deck, I know it won’t be long until he is “called up” and his little brother and I will be looking for back up. Like any parent, I will bask in the joy of this new game for my first born, but, I will stress over who can take his place on the roster. The playing field will change, but, I know my ball player will continue to check in when he is on the road. For now, with one more year of having my closer step up when I need to sit down, I will enjoy the crack of the bat, the smell of the hot dogs, the cheers from the stands, and the relief I have when my back up steps in and saves the game…on and off the field.