To you

I could feel the heat of the day starting a pool at the base of my curls. I ignored the drip down my neck as I picked up speed to the lab. If I walked briskly, I could get there in seven minutes. On a day like today, I needed all the time I could get because I'd left my editorial notes at work.

I didn't have a personal computer 20 years ago which made it an interesting life for a journalism student. With new writing assignments due daily and a full-time job waiting at 3:00pm, I had to use every stitch of my breaks in between classes to write, and if I'd worked a double the night before, I'd attempt some sleep in my 1989 Ford Taurus station wagon with the cracked dash and burgundy interior.

It was a POS and, in those days, that didn't stand for point of sale. The white wagon always gave the appearance that it had a full tank of gas. A pocket notepad sat in the center console keeping tally of the miles driven with math in the margins calculating the number of miles $10 could provide. Trudging to a gas station a time or two made mileage math more precise.

I added up the minutes I had left before my next class. I needed to leave in 30 to arrive on time. I cracked my knuckles and started cranking out 750 words.

Today, I'm sitting in our four-year-old Toyota after dropping you off at school. Life has gotten a facelift since my college days.

My official work day starts in an hour, and I'll have written this in half the time. I hope.

Maybe I've had writer's block the two weeks since I last posted? I can honestly say I started this letter three different times with three different topics. The first felt forced. I fell asleep writing the second. I abandoned the third to work instead.

I'm a little concerned the blog's first negative comment is stalling me.

When it comes to you and my parenthood, I have to admit my varnish has been put to the test. I'm always asked why I don't make you challenge your tastebuds and gaze aversion. Why do I let you chew on everything, and when do I expect you to talk? Were you vaccinated? Did I drop you on your head? Why do you make that sound, and my least favorite question in the list - what's wrong with her?

Being an autism mom comes standard with the critics which is why I'm surprised I let one of them get to me.

"I hate when people exploit their children for money. Stop using your child for clout."

In that moment, so many emotions took root, and I'm still attempting to dig them up and out from my spirit.

First of all, this is a non-monetary blog. I've attempted to keep us nameless and faceless, so hopefully, our stories are a little more relatable. When I talk about you, it's because I'm proud. I am a proud, proud mama. Never, ever, ever question how proud you make me. Ever.

But now I just sound like I'm defending myself to one person when I know there will be others waiting behind her.

I'd love nothing more than to protect you from the world forever, but it's moments like this that remind me I won't always be there to shield you from stares, and maybe that's what truly hurts me the most.

Fast forward one month -

I'm back trying to put words to paper. I swear I am a very busy woman. Haha.

It's April 1st - the first day of Autism Awareness Month. Some of us prefer "Acceptance" Month. I am one of them.

What I was attempting to write for two months is the very essence of April.

I know what it's like to be different, to drive a car that no one wants to ride in, to work harder than I've ever worked in my life. To be hungry. I know what it's like to push to my breaking point, to pray for a chance to make my life different.

I know how hard it is to be me.

But I'll never know just how hard it is to be you.

Teach me, and we'll teach the world together. I'll block out the night, and when you're ready, I'll step aside so everyone can see you shine. Light up the world, my baby. Shine today, tomorrow, this month and every month. Shine so bright you leave the dark behind.

And when you're ready, come recount your achievements for me. You are my favorite untold story, and I am an eager writer ready to relinquish the pen.

To you,

Mama