Autism Awareness: I see you everywhere - OC Moms - The Orange ...

I know what the numbers say.?1 in 88.

Some feel panic.?Some feel insulted that there's panic.?Some don't feel nearly enough.

PHOTO COURTESY MORGUEFILE.COM

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Me??I feel privileged to be my son's parent.?I feel petrified about his future.?I feel too exhausted to get in the middle of the ongoing drama that continues to play out in our enormous and diverse community.

To me, you are more than a number, more than an ongoing debate about the proper terminologly to use when regarding your diagnosis, more than the bickering ad nauseam playing out on unfiltered internet connections every single day.

Instead, I'd rather take the time to reassure you.?To let you know that I see you;?I see you everywhere.

You sit next to me as I get a haircut, your body squirming as the well-meaning woman who wouldn't know autism if it bit her from behind turns on the blow dryer. I watch as your father rushes over, feeling guilty for the overshight as he sets you free from your sensory nightmare and tells you it?s okay.

I want to tell you it?s okay too.

I see you alone on the playground, walking on your toes. You don?t belong to anyone?s game, too clumsy to climb the monkey bars, just different enough that potential friends notice and turn away. I want to rush to your side, aid in your defense, or start a gentle conversation with your mother.

I see you in the store, waiting in the checkout line, your hands covering your ears, your body swaying as it tries to find balance in an unstable world. My arms instinctively want to reach out and hug you, though my head knows better. All the same, if I could I would somehow find a way to make you feel safe.

I see you in my son?s classroom, so different from him, yet so the same. Predictably unpredictable, an awesome force to be reckoned with, a refreshing glimpse into what it means to be pure of heart, no strings attached.

I see you, and there is a connection.?Sometimes it lasts mere seconds, and sometimes I cannot get you out of my mind for hours, days, weeks, months, ever.

I am comforted by your familiarity, especially the way you gaze at something I cannot see - maybe because I?m too busy, maybe because I don?t know how, maybe because it?s just not meant for me.

I think of your parents and I pray for them, because if they?re anything like me and feel for you what I feel for my son with autism, they love you so much they?re guaranteed to make a few mistakes.

I pray that they are always guided by their hearts and instincts.?I pray they will find a way to forgive themselves for the helplessness they often feel.?I pray you will find a way to forgive them should you ever need to.

As we silently part ways, I hope that whoever is blessed enough to have you in their lives will truly know how lucky they are. I hope they take the time to listen to you, especially when you aren?t talking. I hope they bask in your unfiltered joy and respect your raw frustration. I hope they?re doing the very best they can today, and will wake up tomorrow and vow to do even better.

I hope they know you?re not just a statistic.

I watch you one last time, my heart lingering a moment as you leave my field of vision, and I give you a cosmic high five.

I see you.

You matter.

And from where I sit, we?re in this together; you, and I.

* * *

This Modified Life is a column by Jo Ashline for and about the families in Orange County living with special needs. Jo is a freelance writer and married mother of two. She writes regularly for OC Moms, the Orange County Register's parenting section.

Source: http://www.ocregister.com/articles/feel-375283-see-ongoing.html

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