I always envisioned myself as the quintessential mother. I imagined idyllic afternoons spent in the garden with my bright-eyed little one, joyfully creating art with finger paints before retreating inside for a nutritious snack of fresh fruit and Greek yogurt. My child would gaze at me with adoration, and I would respond with a graceful toss of my hair, flipping through my activity book for our next crafting adventure. The late afternoon light would cast a warm, sepia hue over our perfect life together. Record scratch Freeze frame Voiceover: “Yeah, that’s definitely not what happened!”
When my son arrived, I was met with postpartum anxiety and an overwhelming sense of guilt for falling short of my own expectations as a mom. I found myself scrutinizing every decision I made, agonizing over each parenting dilemma, and feeling responsible for every stumble my chunky baby took (which often was due to my inexperience). I longed to be that ideal mother, yet reality painted a different picture—I was a chaotic mess while my son was the sweetest little soul.
Fast forward to April 2012. My son, whom I’ll affectionately refer to as Buddy, was 20 months old and had just received a diagnosis of autism (and yes, I definitely blamed myself for that, too). I was suddenly navigating a maze of therapies, appointments, and special education options. Yet, as I watched him flapping his hands joyfully, unaware of my inner turmoil, a revelation struck me. My child is not just a statistic. Autism may be part of his journey, but he is uniquely mine to nurture. No book on autism could encapsulate who he is; no therapist could define his capabilities. My role was to advocate for him, to help him find his voice, and to embrace the power I held in shaping his future.
Admittedly, I’m not the supermom I once envisioned. I wake up most days feeling more like a zombie than a glowing, composed parent until my coffee kicks in and I steal a few moments of quiet. However, I do possess an abundance of humor. I embrace sarcasm and laughter, often finding that no situation is too dire to be lightened by a well-timed joke—except perhaps labor and delivery, which can be a wild ride.
Fortunately, Buddy shares my sense of silliness. He learns best through laughter, and if tickles were currency, he’d be the wealthiest kid around. His infectious laughter bubbles up from deep within, and soon we are all caught up in his joy. I hope that as he grows, he retains this remarkable ability to find humor in the world, whether he’s laughing at silly sounds or the hilarity of bubbles popping on his nose. Every time I see that beaming smile, my heart swells with pride and love.
Recently, I spoke with a mother whose daughter had just been diagnosed with autism. Understandably, she was feeling lost and frightened. “What does she enjoy? Does she like blocks or puzzles?” I asked. “Not really,” the mom replied, “but she loves bouncing on the couch and laughing.” I encouraged her, “Then bounce alongside her and share in that laughter! Use her infectious joy to create a bond and discover what makes her light up!”
While I may not be teaching Buddy multiple languages or perfect etiquette, that’s perfectly fine. I’m not trying to create a model child for others’ approval. Instead, I’m raising a delightful little goofball who knows how to find happiness within himself and in his surroundings. Regardless of the ups and downs of our days, our shared sense of humor ensures that we end each day with smiles on our faces.
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In summary, humor has become my guiding light through the complexities of parenting a child with autism. Embracing laughter not only strengthens our bond but also helps us navigate the challenges we face together.