Your motherhood journey might look different than what you expected—and that’s OK

I’ll admit it: I’m a packrat. The combination of being short on time, believing an object may serve a later purpose and having limited interest in home decor and organization all contribute to this. After watching an episode of “Tidying Up” with Marie Kondo, I became inspired to declutter two drawers. But they weren’t just any drawers—these were the two drawers in what used to be my son’s changing table. I’d kept the piece because it was well made and looked great, and it had become a quick place to stash stray things. There was a hodgepodge of items: outlet covers still in their packaging, a growth chart with two dates written on it, several family Christmas cards, a box of nursing pads and a barely used set of training wheels.

There was evidence of a past baby shower—the cake topper, a deflated congratulatory balloon and handmade blue soap for the attendees with the label, “Jane’s Baby Shower” carefully tied to the gauze. A gift bag of snowflake stationery with guesses on gender and weight from a family Christmas dinner hosted by my sister. It was a time capsule of pre-baby, pre-birth items. I had no idea what was to come, and no idea as to how much everything would change.

As a parent of a neurodivergent child, you prioritize what you can manage. There were things I did every year without fail, like sending family Christmas cards. There were things I thought I’d need but didn’t: a breast pump, outlet covers and training wheels. There were things I didn’t do because I didn’t have the time: fill in the dates on a growth chart, make a picture album memorializing my son’s first year and frame his preschool artwork. There was a period where I beat myself up for not doing these things because they symbolized what a good mother should do. I didn’t recognize all that I was doing— managing therapies and carrying out therapist recommendations, learning about autism spectrum disorder (ASD), scheduling appointments, advocating for inclusion—and just focused on what I wasn’t doing.

I don’t believe time heals all wounds. Rather, time forces us to confront, reflect, acknowledge, and accept, and with that, you can begin to heal. Today, a school Minibus makes me smile. A group of moms having coffee in the local coffee and whiskey cafe no longer fills me with longing for a memory my motherhood journey couldn’t accommodate. Instead, I wonder if they indulged in a shot of whiskey in their coffee and chuckled at their egregiously oversized bags. I don’t miss that time, and it doesn’t bother me to say so. I much prefer carrying a lighter load: water, Purell, a Ziploc bag of peanuts mixed with mini M&M’s.

At a stop sign on a residential street, I notice a mom and another woman carrying a clipboard, as a wobbly girl in pigtails makes her way from the slide to the seesaw. The clipboard has outed this child. The woman is performing an evaluation—whether it be a psychological assessment, occupational or physical therapy, or perhaps all three. My heart swells. I want to introduce myself, share my story and invite the mom to coffee. I can do none of these things, mainly because I’m in a car but also because it would be an affront to privacy, money and most importantly, the attention of the little girl. I wonder what’s next for her, for my son, for all of us?

I’m interrupted by a terse horn, raise my hand in apology and move forward. I’ve moved forward for the last decade. But sometimes things don’t follow the natural order of things or may not ever happen. Our culture is comfortable espousing and endorsing a linear path, what’s considered “normal,” but there are too many examples of how you can be just as successful or fulfilled by following the gravel path as you would taking the highway.

When I was a kid, the game of LIFE followed certain milestones and rules. You couldn’t get to the next stage until you passed through the one before it. As a child, you may talk before you walk. You may read before you make a friend. 

A neighbor recently commented on how big my son was getting and casually asked me how much he weighed. I paused. I wasn’t sure. I braced myself for the Mom Guilt but it didn’t come. I couldn’t recall the last time he stepped on a scale (aside from a well visit) or his weight from that visit. I’ve learned my brain can only hold a certain amount of information and it has prioritized the pieces that most support his well-being: therapy appointments, things to do/practice at home to support growth, conversations to have with teachers, school administrators, physicians, and others, and the day-to-day delights (and frustrations) of enjoying each other. I hesitated before I answered, “I’m not sure!” We both laughed.