I am that mom. You know the one—sprinting around the playground, drenched in sweat, constantly retying her ponytail. The one scaling the jungle gym and zooming down slides with a child nestled between her legs.
I see you. I catch a glimpse of you sitting with a group of friends, casually sipping coffee, your eyes occasionally drifting in my direction. We’ve crossed paths before, and I know you’re a kind person; you smile and wave, and I return the gesture. I’d love to chat, maybe even share a laugh over our kids’ preschool antics while sipping from a Starbucks cup.
I notice your children as my son dashes by, narrowly avoiding a collision. They’re around the same age as my boys and seem to be playing together, sitting peacefully. You wave for me to join, but I just smile and reply, “I can’t—gotta catch my little guy.”
I genuinely wish I could join you. It’s not that I’m ignoring you or being unsociable. Maybe you think I’m a helicopter mom, but it’s quite the opposite. My son has autism. He struggles to communicate with other kids, is a bit uncoordinated on the slides, and lacks an understanding of safety.
So, I am that mom who climbs every ladder, crawls through every tunnel, and zooms down every slide while encouraging my son. I’m always on the move, ready to spring into action.
I am the mom who can’t sit down. I yearn to join your table, but it looks like I’m just playing. In reality, I’m stressed. Taking my son, who has autism, out can be daunting, but I do it because I want him to be happy. Plus, I need to escape the confines of home sometimes.
If you knew me better, you’d notice I’m always in sneakers—no flip-flops for this mama, as I would trip while chasing after my son. I’m usually in a tank top, even in cooler weather, because I’m always sweating. After an outing, it feels like I’ve run a marathon. My hair is usually a mess, drenched in sweat. I don’t carry a purse or a water bottle; I need my hands free to manage my son.
Have you noticed that in the brief time we’ve been here, we’ve explored every structure, crawled through tunnels, and slid down every slide? I’ve scouted the playground like an agent on a mission. I’m aware of every exit, every potential hazard, and what could end up in my son’s mouth.
I’m always ready to leave, knowing that a sensory overload could happen at any moment, possibly resulting in an incident with another child. I’ve experienced that before, and I don’t want to go through it again. So, I stay alert and prepared.
I know you think I’m an amazing mom; you’ve told me that before. We once chatted while I was at the park with my other son, and you remarked on how the other moms admire me. You joked that my son keeps me fit and that I don’t need to hit the gym. That comment stung a bit—not that you meant any harm, but it made me feel different from you and your friends.
I can’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy as I watch you have a picnic with your friends and kids, laughing together. Your children sit and eat, and I ache for that experience. I wish I could relax and enjoy my son and friends, but our reality is different.
Glancing your way for too long leads my son to the sandbox—oh, the sandbox. I see one of your friends scoop up her toddler as Cooper sits down. Initially offended, I watch him grab handfuls of sand—one for eating, one for tossing. I’m grateful she removed her child; she spared me an awkward apology.
I find myself plopping down in the sandbox just as he jumps up, eager for the next adventure. He can’t stop moving and struggles to play independently. I take a moment to glance around; the park is lovely, but I can’t appreciate it as I’m too busy making sure my son doesn’t have a meltdown or get hurt.
I notice you walking toward the restroom. Did you know I can’t do that? I could never take Cooper into a public restroom. I’ve needed to go since we arrived, but I’ll have to wait until we’re home—yet another reason I don’t carry a water bottle.
“Mom, watch me!” I hear the laughter and excited shouts of children. What I wouldn’t give to hear those words from my son. My almost 7-year-old has never asked me to watch him do something.
His autism is severe. While he looks like any other little boy, his behaviors often confuse those around us. I see other children eyeing his iPad, and I catch a few parents giving me judgmental looks. I understand the bewilderment; we’re at a playground, so why does my child need a device? Some days I wrestle it away from him, but other days, it serves as his comfort, and I’m just grateful to be outside.
I may appear invincible—you tell me I inspire you. But some days, I wonder how I keep going. Last night was tough—I was up late thinking about therapies and diet changes, and worrying about losing Medicaid. I can’t afford to let those thoughts consume me. Today, I’m exhausted, and I’m saving my energy for the sprint to the car when it’s time to leave.
You and I are so different. I hear you discussing your weekend plans—heading to a fair with excited children. In a way, I envy your life. We both have two kids of similar ages, but you’re able to enjoy your day while I feel isolated, even in a crowd.
As my son begins to melt down, I know it’s time to carry him out. You wave, and I wish I could wave back, but my arms are full of a 65-pound child. I can barely hear his screams, but I think I catch you saying, “Let’s sit down and chat next time!”
I glance at you, manage a nod, and smile through tears and sweat. My arms ache, and I can’t help but wonder how I will carry him when he’s ten. I look back at you and say, “Sure, let’s catch up soon. I’d like that.” We both know it’s just a polite exchange. Unless you want to lace up your shoes and run with me, it’s unlikely to happen.
Once Cooper is safely buckled in, I let the tears fall. I look back at the park and wonder if the other moms are relieved we’ve left.
I am that mom.
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Summary
This piece reflects the experiences of a mother navigating the challenges of parenting a child with autism at a playground. Despite her dedication and efforts to engage with her son, the mother grapples with feelings of isolation, envy, and exhaustion. She longs for connection but often finds herself overwhelmed by the demands of her child’s needs. The narrative highlights the complexities of motherhood, especially when faced with unique challenges.