I’m that mom.
You know the one—dashing around the park, hair in a messy ponytail, glistening with sweat. I’m the one scaling the jungle gym, sliding down with a little one nestled between my legs.
I see you.
From the corner of my eye, I spot you sitting with a group of friends, sipping coffee while I’m in motion. We’ve crossed paths before, and I recognize your warmth. We exchange smiles and waves, and oh, how I wish I could join you for a chat over steaming lattes, sharing stories about our children’s latest preschool escapades.
As my son zips past, I catch glimpses of your kids, who are around the same age as mine. They’re playing together, engaged in their fun. You beckon me over, but I can only smile and reply, “I can’t—gotta keep up with the little one.”
It’s not that I’m avoiding you. I’m not standoffish or trying to be a helicopter mom. In fact, it’s quite the opposite. My son has autism, and social interactions are a challenge for him. He struggles to communicate, has difficulty with balance on the playground, and is constantly in motion, unaware of safety or danger.
So here I am, the mom who climbs every ladder, crawls through every tunnel, and slides down every slide. I’m the one encouraging my son to engage with other kids while he navigates his world.
I’m always on the move.
I’m that mom who never sits down. I long to join you at your table, but you see me running around, and it may seem like play to you. In reality, it’s a mix of stress and determination. Leaving the house with my son is no small feat, but I do it for his happiness and my own need to connect with the outside world.
If you knew me well, you’d notice my constant choice of tennis shoes—flip-flops are too risky when chasing after him. I’m always in a tank top, even in cooler weather, because I’m perpetually sweating. After a trip to the park, I often feel like I’ve run a marathon. My hair is a disheveled mess, and I don’t carry a purse or water bottle; I need my hands free for my son.
Have you noticed how, in just a short time, we’ve explored every inch of this playground? I know every exit and danger, and I’m always aware of where the little ones are.
I’m also prepared to leave at a moment’s notice. I understand that my son might experience sensory overload and unintentionally push another child. I’ve seen it happen before, and I can’t bear to witness strangers reprimanding him again. So, I stay alert and one step ahead.
You might think I’m an incredible mom. You’ve told me before, during a previous encounter at this park with my other son, that you admire my ability to manage everything. You joked that I don’t even need the gym because of the workout I get from chasing Cooper. While I appreciate your kind words, I must admit it stings a little. I feel so different from you and your friends.
Sometimes, I can’t help but feel envy.
I see you enjoying a picnic with your children, laughter filling the air as they sit and eat. I wish I could sit and savor a moment with my son and perhaps even bond with you over our experiences. If only circumstances were different.
As I glance your way, I lose focus for just a moment—my son has made a beeline for the sandbox. The dreaded sandbox. I watch as one of your friends scoops her toddler away just as Cooper sits down. Initially, I feel a twinge of offense—he’s just a little boy! But then I see him grab two handfuls of sand—one for his mouth and one to toss. I become grateful she intervened; it spared me an awkward apology.
I plop down in the sandbox just as my son jumps up to explore something else. He can’t stop moving. He craves sensory experiences, and I’m right back to chasing him. I take a moment to admire the park’s beauty and the lovely weather, but I can’t truly enjoy it. I’m too busy anticipating the next potential meltdown.
I notice you heading toward the bathroom. It’s a luxury I can’t afford. Taking Cooper into a public restroom is out of the question. I’ve been holding it since we arrived, but I’ll have to wait until we get home—just another reason I leave the water bottle behind.
“Mom, watch me!”
As I follow Cooper from the play structure to the slide, I hear the joyful sounds around me—children giggling and calling for their moms. I’d give anything to hear those words, but my nearly seven-year-old has never asked me to watch him do anything. His autism is severe, which makes his behaviors sometimes perplexing to others.
I see children trying to peek at Cooper’s iPad. Some parents shoot me side-eye glances. I get it; we’re at a playground, and my child has a device. I sometimes question if it’s appropriate, but some days he needs it for comfort, and I don’t always have the energy to fight that battle. I’m just grateful to be out of the house, oblivious to the judgment from onlookers.
I may seem like a supermom, and while you say I inspire you, there are days when I struggle to keep it together. Last night was restless; I was up late contemplating therapies, diet changes, and the looming fear of losing Medicaid. I can’t let those thoughts take hold—I’m too exhausted. I have to conserve my energy to get my son safely to the car when it’s time to leave.
We are worlds apart.
I overhear you talking about your weekend plans—a trip to a fair, excitement bubbling from your kids. In some ways, I’m drawn to your life. We share similarities; both of us have two children around the same age. Yet you sit back, enjoying the moment, while I feel an overwhelming sense of isolation amidst the crowd.
Just like that, my son begins to melt down. I need to scoop him up and carry him out. As I pass you, you wave, but I can’t wave back; my arms are full. I barely register your encouraging words about chatting next time.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see another mom putting her toddler back in the sandbox. Perhaps it’s just a coincidence. I manage a weak smile and nod, but tears well up as I feel sweat trickle down my forehead. My arms ache with the weight of my son. I often wonder how I’ll handle him when he’s ten.
I look back at you and smile, saying, “Sure, let’s catch up soon. I’d love that.” But we both know it’s a polite gesture. Unless you’re willing to lace up your shoes and run alongside me, it’s unlikely to happen.
I wait until Cooper is safely buckled in the car before allowing myself to break down. I glance back at the park and wonder if the other moms are relieved to see us go.
I am that mom.
In summary, this reflective piece captures the unique challenges faced by a mother of a child with autism at a playground setting. The author expresses feelings of isolation, envy, and the relentless pursuit of normalcy while managing her son’s needs. She highlights the dichotomy between her experiences and those of other parents, portraying the emotional weight of her situation alongside moments of hope and resilience.