I am that mom.
You know the one—the one sprinting around the playground, a sheen of sweat glistening on my forehead while I constantly adjust my ponytail. I’m the mom scaling the jungle gym, sliding down with a child nestled between my legs.
I notice you.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see you seated with your friends, sipping coffee and enjoying a leisurely chat. I recognize you; we’ve crossed paths a few times. You’re lovely, always smiling and waving, and I return the gesture. How I wish I could join you for a coffee from that cute little café down the street and share stories about our kids’ latest preschool antics.
Your children are near as my son dashes by, almost colliding with them. They’re around the same age as my boys, playing together, sitting together. You gesture for me to join, but I simply smile and respond, “I can’t—gotta chase the little guy.”
It’s not that I’m ignoring you or trying to be unsociable. I’m not a helicopter mom. In fact, I’m quite the opposite. My son has autism, which makes social interactions a challenge. Communication is difficult for him, and he tends to be a bit uncoordinated on the slides. He can’t stop moving and has no concept of safety.
So yes, I’m that mom. The one who scales every ladder, crawls through tunnels, and goes down every slide. I’m always smiling and laughing, engaging with other kids, encouraging my son to keep trying.
I’m always prepared to dash.
I’m the mom who never takes a breather. While you see me running and think I’m playing, I’m actually quite stressed. Leaving the house with a child who has autism is daunting, but I do it because I want my son to enjoy himself. Honestly, I need to get out of the house, too; it’s vital for my own sanity.
If you really knew me, you’d see that I always wear tennis shoes—no flip-flops for me, as they’re too risky when I’m chasing my son. I’m usually in a tank top, even when the weather is cool, because I’m always sweating. After an outing, I feel like I’ve run a marathon. My hair is a mess, and I rarely carry a purse or a water bottle; I need to keep my hands free at all times.
In the few minutes we’ve been at the park, my son and I have climbed every structure, crawled through every tunnel, and slid down every slide. I’ve surveyed the area more thoroughly than an undercover agent—I know all the exits, dangers, and what could possibly end up in his mouth.
I’m ready to leave at a moment’s notice, aware that my son might have a sensory overload and push another child. I’ve seen it happen before, and I dread the thought of strangers yelling at him again. So I remain vigilant.
I know you think I’m an incredible mom. You’ve told me so before. We chatted once when I was at the park with my other son. You expressed awe at how I handle everything. You joked that my son keeps me fit and that I don’t even need a gym membership. While I know you meant well, those words stung a bit, making me feel different from you and your circle.
I can’t help but feel envious.
I watch you enjoying a picnic with your friends, laughing together as your kids sit and eat the food you prepared. The jealousy cuts deep. What I wouldn’t give to relax and savor the moment with my son and friends. If circumstances were different, I’d love to forge a friendship with you.
But then, just as I glance over at you, my son makes a beeline for the sandbox. Oh, the dreaded sandbox. I see one of your friends quickly scoop her toddler away as my son settles in. Initially, I feel offended—he’s just a little boy—but then I watch him scoop up two handfuls of sand: one for his mouth and one to throw. I’m grateful she grabbed her child; she saved me from having to apologize.
I plop down in the sandbox as my son jumps up, ready for the next adventure. He can’t stop moving, and he struggles to engage in play. He’s a sensory seeker, and off I go again. I take a moment to appreciate my surroundings—the beautiful park, the lovely day. But I can’t truly enjoy it; I’m too busy chasing him and anticipating the meltdown that could occur if we stay too long.
I see you heading to the restroom. Did you know that’s a luxury I can’t afford? I could never take my son into a public restroom. I’ve needed to relieve myself since we arrived, but I’ll have to hold it until I get home—yet another reason I don’t carry a water bottle.
“Mom, watch me!”
As I follow my son from the platform to the slide, I hear the joyful noise around me—giggling and little voices. It’s a sound I long to hear. “Mom, watch me!” “Mom, Mom, Mom!” Those words have never reached my ears; my almost-seven-year-old has never asked me to watch him do something.
His autism is quite severe. While he looks like any other boy, his behaviors can confuse those around us.
I notice other kids trying to peek at my son’s iPad, and I see a few parents giving me disapproving looks. I get it; we’re at a playground. Why does my son need an iPad? I sometimes feel the same way and wrestle it away from him. But on days like this, it’s his comfort, and I’m just grateful to be out of the house, regardless of the stares.
I may seem like an invincible mom; you say I inspire you. But some days, I struggle to keep going. I didn’t sleep well last night, consumed by thoughts about therapies and diet changes, while concerns about losing Medicaid crept into my mind. I can’t afford to worry about that right now; I’m exhausted. Today, the thought of small talk is too much. I’m saving my energy to get my little boy safely to the car when it’s time to go.
We’re so different.
I overhear you sharing your weekend plans—heading to a fair, with your kids brimming with excitement. In a way, I’m drawn to your life; we are parallel, yet worlds apart. We both have two children of similar ages, but you’re enjoying your day while I’m crying behind my sunglasses.
I often feel the profound isolation that comes with my son’s disability, especially in crowded places like this. We’re surrounded by laughter and joy, yet my son and I feel utterly alone. I am that mom, and it’s heart-wrenching.
And just like that, my son starts to melt down. I have to carry him out, flailing and screaming. You wave as I pass, and I’d wave back, but my arms are full. I can’t hear you over the chaos, but I think you say, “Let’s sit down and chat next time you’re here!”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see another mom putting her toddler back in the sandbox. Coincidence? Who knows. I smile and nod at you, my eyes welling up with tears as sweat trickles down my forehead. My arms ache, and I can’t help but wonder how I’ll manage to carry him when he’s ten.
I glance back at you and offer a smile. “Sure,” I say. “Let’s catch up soon. I’d like that.” We both know it’s just a polite exchange. Unless you’re willing to lace up your shoes and run alongside me, it’s unlikely to happen.
I wait to break down until Cooper is safely buckled in the car. I look back at the playground and the other moms and kids, wondering if they’re relieved we’re gone.
I am that mom.
Summary
This heartfelt reflection explores the challenges faced by a mother of a child with autism at a playground. She shares her experiences of constant vigilance, social isolation, and the longing for connection with other parents, all while navigating the unique struggles her son presents. Despite appearing strong and capable, she grapples with feelings of loneliness and envy, wishing for the simple joys of shared experiences with other families. Ultimately, she embodies resilience and love in a world that can often feel isolating.
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