Every morning when I walk into work, my office mate greets me with the same bright, chipper questions: “Good morning! Did you have a good night? Do anything special.”
I always smile, because how do you explain that “special” in my world is… layered? I’m a sole parent to a seven‑year‑old neurodiverse boy, Jack — brilliant, brave, high‑functioning in many ways, and still needing support in areas that most boys his age have long outgrown. Our life isn’t tragic. It’s just different. And different comes with its own brand of exhaustion, joy, and ::eye roll:: moments.
Last night, the sun finally came out after months of Seattle gloom, which meant one thing: Jack would want the park. My mom lives with us — a blessing I will never stop being grateful for — and the smell of her cooking hit me the second I walked through the door. Before I could even take a breath, I heard a little voice from upstairs call, “Grass Lawn Park?”
Upstairs, Jack was working on his sticker art on my bedroom wall — his newest obsession. Yes, my bedroom wall. Yes, I’ve surrendered. Yes, ::eye roll::. Even though it was 6 PM and I was starving, I changed clothes and off we went.
At the park, I stood there freezing, holding my phone up with pictures of Dory, Curious George, Ellie from Ice Age — whichever character Jack chose to “play with” that day. And yes, he’s seven. Some kids his age are climbing the highest structure or forming little soccer teams; Jack still finds comfort in characters and rituals that anchor him. Kids stare. Adults stare. I shrug. This is our normal.
Leaving the park is always the battle I brace for. Transitions are hard for Jack — screaming, hitting, the occasional curse word he absolutely did not learn from me. And of course, we had to drive past Dairy Queen, which meant the entire ride home was a meltdown soundtrack. By the time we pulled into the driveway, my nerves were shot.
Jack didn’t want to go inside. He wanted to “drive” the car — something he’s loved to do for years. So, I went into the house and grabbed a large glass of wine, climbed into the passenger seat, and let him take us on a “road trip”. When he looked at me with that proud little smile and said, “I’ll be your driver today!” my whole heart softened. Parenting him means living in this constant swing between overwhelm and awe.
Later, during his shower — a whole production involving my iPhone, books, and the iPad all positioned just right — I stepped away for a moment. When I came back, water was everywhere. Everywhere. I sat down on the bathroom floor in defeat, staring at the flood like, “Of course. Why not. Sure.” But then I realized he had washed his own hair. A milestone we’d been working toward for ages. “Mommy happy? Jack washed hair!” Yes. Mommy was very happy. Mommy was also very wet. But mostly, proud.
Every night, I remake my entire bed from scratch because he strips it down to the mattress. It’s part of his daily routine, hence remaking it is part of mine. It’s one of the many ways our life is different. Not worse. Not tragic. Just different. And different can be exhausting.
By 9:30 PM, we were gearing up for the last daily battle of the day — bedtime. Jack has his own room, but he’d migrated back into mine. Neurodivergent kids do that sometimes; they return to the place that feels safest, even if the rest of the world thinks they should’ve “grown out it” by then. I tried the whole “big boys sleep in their own rooms” speech, but he wasn’t having any of it. And honestly? I didn’t have the energy for a full‑scale bedtime war. So yes, another night where he starfished across the middle of my bed while I clung to the edge with a corner of a blanket.
Eventually he fell asleep, and I lay awake — as I do every night — letting the quiet fill with questions:
Am I doing enough.
Is he getting what he needs.
Can I be more, do more, love more.
And then morning came. A new day. A new fight. A new chance. Jack snuggled into me, warm and soft, and I kissed his hands and breathed him in. I am an Autism Warrior Mom. I get up. I keep going.
So when I walked into work today and heard, “Did you do anything special?” I just smiled. Because there’s no way to explain all the tiny battles, tiny victories, ::eye roll:: moments, and tiny miracles that happen between 6 PM and sunrise.
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