To the M.o.C.h.A.s I haven’t met.
To the M.o.C.h.A.s I didn’t sit down with.
To the M.o.C.h.A.s who are afraid to share their story or don’t know how.
I see you.
I see you in full and utter denial. Googling in secret. Your head knows the truth but your heart hasn’t caught up.
I see you.
I see you at the doctor’s office as he or she gives you that knowing, pity smile and the tears just start falling as the doctor throws more acronyms your way than you ever thought possible for one human being.
I see you.
I see you hiding at home and not daring to take your child out in public because you would rather not deal with judging eyes. No one understands.
I see you.
I see your misplaced guilt. I see you racking your brain desperately trying to figure out what you could have possibly eaten while pregnant or what toxins you could have been exposed to or what hot tub you happened to sit in or whatever random totally unrelated thing you could have possibly unknowingly or knowingly done to “cause” this in your precious baby.
I see you.
I see you braving the birthday party but ending up spending an hour in a stranger’s bedroom bear hugging your kiddo because the noise and music and piñata were all too much on that sensory meter and meltdown mode has kicked in.
I see you.
I see your eyes flicker as you daydream while your best friends talk about a girls’ weekend and as a single mom to a child with autism you know that they know you will pretend to be excited but there is no way you can commit. You will be a good friend, like all their pictures on Instagram when they do go on that trip and lie about how you couldn’t have gone anyway because something came up at work and yeah, next year. Can’t wait for next year guys! Ugh.
I see you.
I see you at work with your dressy slacks and pretty blouse pretending to be put together when really you were up all night cleaning after an epic round of fecal smearing. You are still a little traumatized, can’t shake the smell and probably wore a little extra perfume that day. You know you can’t share the events of your evening with ANY of your co-workers. I mean seriously, they probably wouldn’t even believe you.
I see you.
I see you as you prepare for that big meeting or presentation at work or school and just when you pump yourself up enough to walk in that conference room or stand before the class, you get a call from your child’s school to come pick them up because they are having a meltdown and no one knows what to do. It’s the third time this month.
I see you.
I see you hiding in the bathroom, sobbing quietly because the disappointment on your spouse’s face was too much to bear as the reality of the son he will never have sinks in.
I see you.
I see your fake forced smile in the grocery store as your grown child sits in the grocery cart stimming, wearing noise- cancelling headphones and you pretend it’s totally normal and you are OK with it all. No big thing. Uh huh.
I see you.
I see you look away from all of the commercials and movies and magazine articles about pregnancy and having more babies and big families because you mentally decided years ago that your child is so severe you can not even fathom having another child because what if…
I see you.
I see you as you work hard to attend trainings and try to learn all you can to help your child and read books and blogs all just to never fix the problem that is your family as they continue to not understand, call your kid “chiflado”, spoiled, and insist a good spanking will do the trick.
I see you.
I see you in that first ARD meeting of your life trying to make sense of the lingo, wondering how it all came to this and feeling helpless and powerless as others dictate your child’s education because, let’s be honest, you don’t have a special education degree and they do. You don’t know enough to contribute and it’s easier to let them “do their job.”
I see you.
I see your shoulders tense up as you stare at all the angry markings of a red pen and long notes on the daily behavior note or chart detailing all your child did “wrong” and “bad” that day at school. I also see that snicker you give at the end when you read “Please have a talk with your child”. Oh, sure. I’ll just talk to her. Right. OK.
I see you.
I see you as you overhear other mom’s talk about honor roll and standardized tests and you can’t help but want to simultaneously giggle and puke as you hear one mom complain that her little girl got her first B, an 89 to be exact and … what a disaster and how dare she and how will she get into that IVY league college with those kind of grades and how inappropriate for the teachers to show a movie during the holidays when every day should be strict instruction and well, you get the picture.
I see you.
I see you as you return to work after summer break and hear everyone’s incredible and fun-filled stories of travel. I see you as you genuinely feel joy for your friends but equal sadness for the summer you spent at home because your child is nonverbal, a runner in public places like an airport, sensitive to the noise of a theme park, but mainly because you are absolutely broke due to all of the speech and occupational and maybe even ABA therapy you have scrapped the bank to afford.
I see you.
I see you sitting in the dark wondering how long this deep dark tunnel is and starting not to trust anyone and everyone that says there is “light” on the other side. Yup. Waiting for that light.
I see you.
I see you as you side-eye heaven. Sure. God. Watching over us, um hum. I see you question Him and sometimes even wonder if He too is just another lie this world throws at us because I mean if He was real how could He allow this?
I see you.
I see you giving up, eating like crap, not taking care of yourself, not sleeping, not exercising because seriously who cares and why does it even matter?
I see you.
I see you as your lip quivers and your eyes well up with tears as you bath your grown child who is nearing puberty and I see you questioning if you are being respectful enough as you do it.
I see you.
I see you staring at the ceiling at night as your mind forces you to take a nasty turn down the “what will happen to my child when I die” path. That terrifying path. That path that makes you sick to your stomach with guilt for hoping your child goes first because that seems best for their safety.
I see you.
I see you look equally disgusted when someone says “autism is such a blessing” as when they say “autism is such a curse”. Equally wrong. Equally misinformed.
I see you. I am you.
This year I have brought you nine incredibly unique but yet similar stories about a M.o.C.h.A.
I’ve heard from some of you. You laughed and cried and worried and questioned.
I fought so hard to help everyone understand this special group of moms and, autism or not, I think we laid important groundwork for relatability and kindness for each other.
