Parenting
By Jamie Anderson
I caught a glimpse of uncertainty in her eyes. It was a brief flicker, but it hit me hard.
Today was “Creatures and Costumes Day” at Ava’s summer camp. Although Ava isn’t particularly fond of creatures, her creativity shone through as she crafted an impressive “Space Cat” outfit. (Her fascination with cats has been unwavering since before she could form words, and it’s still going strong after nine years.)
We arrived in a bit of a frenzy. Time had slipped away from me, and I was anxious about being late—something this chronically early, nerves-ridden mom despises. The delay was largely due to Ava’s reluctance to stop reading her book at breakfast to get dressed and apply sunscreen, a standoff that escalated until we both got frustrated. Books are another of her great loves, rivaling her passion for cats.
The environment was bright, loud, and bustling. To make matters worse, Ava’s group was not where we expected them to be.
Panic began to rise. I know Ava intimately, and even before her autism spectrum disorder diagnosis earlier this year, I understood how overwhelming situations like this could be.
Ava struggles with bright sunlight, even with her shades on. She tends to freeze up in crowded spaces. Loud noises can easily unnerve her. And she thrives on routine—her group being relocated was a wrench in her plans.
Fortunately, she didn’t have a meltdown, a testament to her therapy sessions aimed at helping her manage her emotions when things go awry. Still, she appeared anxious and began to withdraw, hunching over as if trying to shrink into herself.
I reassured her that we would find her group, but my heart ached for her. Desperately, I scanned the area for a familiar face. “Sweetie, do you see anyone you know?” I asked, but she was focused solely on the ground, teetering on the edge of tears.
“No, Mommy! They’re not where they’re supposed to be!” she replied, her voice quivering.
Then, a young man approached, looking perplexed but friendly. “Hi there! I’m Ava’s counselor. We’re gathering on the basketball court today.”
Ava shuffled past him without looking back, unaware of my attempt to plant a kiss on her head. In her Space Cat costume, which included pointy ears and summer boots, she trudged toward the basketball court like a condemned soul.
And I saw it in his eyes—a flicker of judgment. In that instant, I recognized it because I had been guilty of the same thing.
With nearly 15 years in public education, I’ve worked with children across the spectrum, including those with various learning disabilities and emotional challenges. I strive to create an environment where each child feels cherished, supported, and successful.
But becoming a parent to Ava forced me to confront a harsh truth: despite my dedication to all children, I had often viewed those who were neurodiverse as somehow different. I loathe admitting this, as it carries a weight of shame, but I often failed to see them as fully “real” individuals.
When a boy stood too close and spoke too loudly, I thought, “He has autism.” When a girl covered her ears and dashed out of the bathroom due to the sound of a hand dryer, I thought, “She has autism.” When another child’s IEP required me to repeat directions quietly and break assignments down into manageable steps, I thought, “He has autism.”
Sure, I was committed to helping these kids and genuinely cared for them, yet I often let the label cloud my perception of them as vibrant individuals with thoughts and feelings.
Ava has autism. But throughout my day, I frequently forget about her diagnosis. When we erupt in laughter over something her little brother does, when she curls up in my lap—despite her height—or when she plays joyfully with our neighbors, I see her for who she is. She is a girl who splashes through waves on vacation, worries about cute kiwi birds facing extinction, creates stunning art, writes captivating poetry, and delivers sophisticated jokes that leave her father and me in stitches.
That counselor, however, didn’t see any of that. He saw a child in an unusual costume who appeared disoriented and aloof because of a minor change in her routine.
I wish he could see beyond that exterior because beneath her quirks lies a genuine child with a beautiful heart and an extraordinary mind—someone who navigates the world differently, but is not defined by her autism diagnosis. That diagnosis merely serves as a guide to help us communicate with her and appreciate her uniqueness.
Perhaps one day, that counselor will reach this understanding too. It’s a perspective worth striving for.
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In summary, while my child has autism, I hope the world sees her for so much more than that. Beyond her diagnosis lies a vibrant individual, deserving of recognition for her unique contributions and qualities.