I will never understand why some days, for no tangible reason, just feel harder than others. I am so emotional today about my life with Kiran.
School drop off and pick up are just lonely. I struggle already with being an outgoing person, so I have to be in a certain headspace to force myself to initiate conversations. I still do it frequently, but it doesn’t come easily or naturally. And it doesn’t help that most of the other parents – moms, especially, which I find interesting – have put a bubble around us. It’s like we have the plague, and they are worried Kiran is contagious.
My brain tells me they just aren’t sure how to interact with us. I also don’t know how to bridge that gap, so understanding it doesn’t make it hurt any less.
I also grow cynical and wonder why I should even bother trying. I don’t have any other children; no neurotypical children with which to find common ground. I am Kiran’s mom only, and it’s my only experience being a parent. I have next to nothing in common with the average parent of neurotypical kids. If conversation ever went beyond the damn weather, I’m not even sure I could contribute.
Adult friendships are hard anyway, and I find this to be continually exhausting and painful.
I had an appointment today, and my esthetician, who usually simply leaves it as “How is your son doing?” decided to go deeper. She asked if he communicates with signs. So I explained where we are with his communication skills, which is also a difficult subject. It’s hard to help someone who doesn’t know him at all or have any concept of his life so far understand who he is. It’s painful for me to talk about his lack of communication ability.
And today was one of those days, at preschool pickup, watching all the other kids running to their parents, yelling “Mommy!” or “Daddy!”….I have just been on the verge of tears all day.
My absolute saving grace in all of this is I know these are my struggles. They belong to me. Kiran doesn’t struggle with these things. He is happy to be around his classmates. He has a few friends who play with him often, and the classroom environment is very inclusive. He doesn’t seem to grasp – or care – that he is different. He is happy, and he is loved.
Ultimately, that’s what matters. I’m doing something right, even on the days I feel like I do everything wrong. Even on the days that hurt like hell. Even on the days I just wish our life could be different.
He is happy. He is loved. It’s a long road ahead, but we journey together.