Dedicated to the 1 Grandma, 3 Moms, and 2 Dads I made direct eye contact with today. We saw each other. We understood.

Summers are hard for families who have a child with disabilities. Period. I can only speak for myself, but for me, it’s heartbreaking. Any time of year when I think about “summer break,” I feel anxiety and sadness.

My son Jack is 17 and has multiple neurological diagnoses. Summer starts the same way every year: he gets sick after the last day of school. He “comes down” – all the tension, stress, sensory overload, and adrenaline release hits him like a brick wall. June 11th was the last day of school. June 12th he woke up sick. Five days of an extreme head cold. Then three full days of sleep.

Not the “YAY, SUMMER!” most people know.

And when he gets sick, his sleep schedule goes off the rails. Jack becomes a vampire – up all night, alone. He’s an only child with one parent and a well meaning Grammy who adores him. But I work. I can’t stay up all night with him. And because of his difficulty with social interactions and communication, his social circle is basically nonexistent.

Jack is extremely social and deeply engaged at school. But when school breaks for summer?

He drifts. He pines. He becomes isolated.


For years now, I’ve taken every Friday off during the summer so we can have long weekends to go do things. But this week his behavior spiked, and I realized I needed to take Wednesday off too – get him out of the house, get him engaged, get him connected to something.

He insisted on the dreaded Water Park. In 96 degree weather.

Fine. Water Park it was.

Because he’d been up all night and asleep all morning, we didn’t get there until 2:30 p.m. By that time the day was blazing, the sun was scorching. We trekked across the parking lot, stood in two consecutive slow moving lines, frying like bacon on a skillet. We FINALLY got into the park.

As soon as we walked in, Jack headed directly to the wave pool – the only thing he likes to do there. Immediately the whistles blew. Wave pool break. What the FUCK is that. Wave pool break? Sigh.

A sweet young woman offered me her lounge chair as she was leaving – thank God – so I had somewhere to put my ginormous bag.

We sat. We scorched.
We waited.
It was packed. I was thinking, “Don’t these people have jobs? It’s Wednesday for God’s sake!”

Jack was spinning up. So was I.

He started to get really upset – sensory overload. I felt it too.

I’m not proud of some of my parenting tactics, and I NEVER encourage violence. But sometimes I become slightly unhinged. Jack is used to this parental flaw. I finally told him that if they didn’t open the fucking wave pool, I was going to punch someone in the throat.

He smiled.

He’s never seen me punch anyone. I’ve never punched anyone. But he knows – as well as I do – that I’m not above it.

FINALLY the wave pool opened. He got up and started in. I told him not to ditch me – the place was packed, and even though it wasn’t over his head, I needed to see him at all times.

He immediately got overstimulated – people, water, screams, splashes. It was overwhelming. I was overwhelmed.

A grandma stood next to me, watching Jack. She started talking – I couldn’t hear her well, but she was sweet, insightful, supportive. Jack yelled at me to “go away.” He’s a teenage boy who didn’t want his mom circling – but he was starting to spiral. The grandma stepped in to soothe him.

I was getting nervous about how we’d exit. I scanned the park like a first responder – a skill I mastered when Jack was no longer in a stroller and I had to navigate him in escalation mode, carry all our shit, and get us out of places when he was triggered. Jack is six feet tall now and outweighs me by a lot. He’s not the little boy I could direct, Mom handle, pick up, and get out.

Things escalated quickly. Both Jack and I knew we needed to leave ASAP. We were way up at the front of the pool, probably hundreds of people between us and the exit.

“Let’s go,” I said. Jack nodded.

He took off – but today was different. He didn’t let me out of his sight. He didn’t grab my hand – because gross, Mom – but he was getting us out of there with pure brute force.

I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but he was announcing something. Most likely, “Get the fuck out of my way.” Given that he was raised by me… oops. But the waters were parting. People moved.

Three different moms I’d seen earlier made eye contact – gave me supportive signs. An arm rub. A smile. A nod.

Two dads quickly assessed the situation and followed us to make sure I was okay. Huge kid, very upset. Much smaller mom running behind. I got the optics. I appreciated their awareness and support.

But I didn’t need it.
My boy had us covered.
He was leading the way.
Clearing the path for his mom.

Even though the scene was chaotic, I was proud of him. He wasn’t the little boy who needed me to Mom handle him out of a spiraling situation. He was a young man taking charge and taking care of me. He kept glancing back, making sure I was keeping up. He looked different – protective – in control and determined in a way I hadn’t seen before.

That night, he kept calling me into his room – he wanted to talk. We’d talk, then he’d kick me out. He is a teenager.

As I sat on his bed, he told me he wanted a girlfriend. That he was sad. It broke my heart into a million pieces.

Jack is handsome, kind, empathetic. Smart and funny. Protective. I told him high school sucks, and his life will get so much better as an adult. That we’ll keep trying new things, meeting new people, going new places. That I am – and will always be – his biggest fan.

He got quiet, selected his favorite opera video on YouTube, and we sat together listening in silence.

Yes, my boy chooses opera for comfort.
Because he’s beautiful. He’s creative. He’s an old soul.

And he’s one hell of a catch for any young woman.