I always envisioned myself as the quintessential mother. I imagined lazy afternoons in the backyard, finger-painting with my bright-eyed little one, both of us blissfully lost in creativity before retreating indoors for a nutritious snack of fresh fruit and Greek yogurt. My child would gaze up at me with adoration, and I would respond with a graceful toss of my hair while consulting my idea book for our next engaging project. The golden hues of the late afternoon sun would bathe us in a warm glow, encapsulating the ideal motherhood experience.
Cue record scratch. Freeze frame. Voiceover: “Yeah, that’s not how it turned out!”
Instead, I became a mom to my son, dealt with postpartum anxiety, and grappled with an overwhelming sense of guilt for not meeting my own expectations. I constantly scrutinized my decisions, second-guessed every parenting choice, and felt responsible every time my chunky baby stumbled over his own feet (which I often attributed to my shortcomings). I was far from the idealized version of myself; I had a delightful child, yet I was a chaotic mess.
Fast forward to April 2012, when my son, now 20 months old, received a diagnosis of autism (yes, I initially blamed myself for that too). I found myself facing a daunting world of therapies, appointments, and special education. As I watched him happily flap his hands, blissfully unaware of the fear gripping my heart, I experienced an illuminating realization: my child was not defined by statistics. He may have autism and require significant support, but he was mine to nurture and shape. No book could capture his essence, and no therapist could limit what he could achieve. It was up to me—and his wonderful dad—to determine the best way to guide him. Recognizing the power I held in my hands, despite their trembling, became my source of strength.
That said, I don’t claim to be a supermom. Most mornings, I resemble a zombie until my coffee kicks in and I can steal a few quiet moments to myself. What I do possess, however, is a remarkable sense of humor. I embrace sarcasm and laughter generously. Whenever that familiar dread creeps in, I reach for my trusty sense of humor, which can momentarily halt the chaos around me. I believe there’s no situation that a well-timed joke cannot alleviate (except perhaps during labor—now that’s a tough one). As long as I have this humor, I’m doing just fine.
Fortunately, my son inherited this delightful silliness. He thrives on laughter and if tickles were currency, he’d be a millionaire. His infectious giggle resonates from his belly, and soon, we’re all caught up in his joy. I sincerely hope that as he grows, he retains his ability to find humor in everything, from farts to falls, from bumper cars to bubbles popping on his nose. My heart swells every time I see his face light up with laughter.
Recently, I spoke with a mother whose daughter had just been diagnosed with autism. Understandably, she was feeling lost and scared. “What does she enjoy? Does she like blocks or puzzles? Maybe Play-Doh?” I inquired.
“Oh, not really,” she replied. “She’s not into toys yet, but she loves bouncing on the couch and laughing.”
“Perfect! Join her! Bounce with her, hold her hands, spin her around, and watch her glow! Leverage her incredible ability to laugh and turn it into a superpower!”
While I may not be teaching my son five languages or perfect table manners, that’s perfectly fine. I’m not crafting an ideal child to meet societal expectations. Instead, I’m raising a joyful, spirited goofball who delights in play and discovers happiness both within and around him.
No matter the ups and downs of our day, one undeniable benefit of humor is that we always end our evenings with smiles on our faces.
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In summary, embracing humor has been instrumental in my journey of motherhood, especially after a life-altering diagnosis. It not only uplifts my spirits but also strengthens the bond I share with my son, allowing us to navigate life’s challenges with a smile.