I'm Not Supposed to Admit This

I’m not supposed to want the things I actually want.

Welcome! In case you’re new here, I write about my journey as a mother to two boys, one of whom has non-speaking autism, through the lens of the Christian gospel. This month’s newsletter is about balancing personal ambition with parenting and caregiving.

Every night, around ten o’clock, I begin to think about people who are able to go to sleep whenever they choose. I think of people who stretch their arms toward the ceiling, yawn loudly, and obnoxiously announce: “Well, I’m going to bed!” I laugh a little—a bitter laugh. Some of these people have teens or adult children. Self-righteously, they speak of rocking babies, of paying dues. That debt is now settled and so are they—in a cozy mountain of sherpa.

My non-speaking autistic son has seasons of sleeping well (in which I blissfully forget that sleep was ever helter-skelter) and seasons of fighting sleep, doggedly. Amid the months of good sleep, I make foolish commitments. I accept invitations for late-night coffees with friends, dream up cross-country travel plans, or—in my most recent twist of madness—believe I am capable of catting around town as a newspaper reporter. A senior reporter at our local paper reached out, twice: You’re a good writer. We could use someone like you. Both times, I said: Yes! What rivers must I ford? Doesn’t matter! I’m paddling your way! I attached a resume and writing samples. I preemptively sought reference letters.

Briefly, I wondered how all of this was going to work. After all, I’m the full-time caregiver for my non-speaking autistic son. I homeschool both of my children. I do not have a regular childcare provider. I entertained visions of an on-the-go education. I’d be the quirky reporter with two kids in the back seat. Meanwhile, my kids would enjoy the ride. We’d attend local football games and ribbon cuttings. They’d learn their city, inside and out. They’d watch me interview local leaders and ask hard-hitting questions. They’d look back fondly on their days cruising around town with Mom, “car-schooling”—working math problems at City Hall while I interviewed the mayor. This dreamscape was fully alive in my mind.

Let’s put aside, for a moment, the fact that no editor was ever going to consent to this fantasy. We’ll ignore that reality. The fact remains that it was never, ever going to work for my autistic son. What, for example, would I’ve done if my son refused to get out of the car? What would I’ve done if my son started running away while I was interviewing a Very Important Person who is Very Short on Time? Complaints would be made. People would feel uncomfortable. I wouldn’t be a “culture fit.”

I miss working. I know I’m not supposed to admit that. I’m supposed to feed a sourdough starter, shop consignment sales, and read trad-wife blogs with glee. I’m supposed to find deep, lasting fulfillment in strolls through Target or Costco. All of that is supposed to be enough for me. I’m not supposed to want the things I actually want: quiet hours to write; a homeschool tutorial that admits children with autism, no questions asked; and a church that doesn’t tell me that my child—due to his disability—might benefit from an exorcism. I’m not supposed to want the impossible.

I emailed the newspaper editor—I’d love to do this, but I can only commit to a handful of stories per month. I offered nights and weekends because nights and weekends are all I have. No reply. It didn’t matter that I would’ve moved heaven and earth to make those five stories the best in the paper, every single month. It didn’t matter that I would’ve gone to unspeakable lengths to make certain that even a blurb on a shoe-store opening was riveting. I didn’t have enough to give. I get it. I wouldn’t hire me, either.

It’s taken all day to compose this child’s handful of words. It’s now ten o’clock at night. I am thinking again of people who have the ability to go to sleep on a whim. To travel on a whim. To do anything on a whim. I sit in semidarkness, sipping lemon balm tea. Tyson and Linus both fell asleep hours ago—books splayed across their chests. Milo is still awake. Every so often, he paces the hall. I tell him to go to bed. He flips the hall light on. I turn it off. This isn’t a good season for me to write a riveting piece on a shoe-store opening. This is a good season for me to drink lemon balm tea and write from my living-room sofa. Here, in this lamp-lit room, I’ll dream of impossible things—and pray for the strength to stay awake a little longer.

“Count it all joy, my brothers, when you meet trials of various kinds, for you know that the testing of your faith produces steadfastness.” (James 1:2-3)

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