Stacie Sherman

This Autism Awareness Day, my  beautiful Brielle is at her dad’s house, so I get a morning to sleep in. Of course I’m up at 7 a.m. So with a cup of coffee, I get to sit in my quiet kitchen and reflect upon my life as an autism mama.

Moments like this are rare. I have become accustomed to listening for every sound. When Brielle is home, rarely more than five minutes go by when she is not asking me for something. I don’t mind. I cannot imagine what it must be like to not be able to use my voice. Imagine every time you want a drink, or you have to go to the bathroom, or you need help playing a video, you have to ask without words. That’s what Brielle’s life is like. Thank God for modern technology. Her iPad is her voice. And she’s got me. I know every sound she makes. I can be sitting down on the living room couch and hear the upstairs bathroom door open and know it’s her. I am running up and down those stairs dozens of times a day (Now you know my secret to staying in shape).

This is my life. I have a 14-year-old who needs help in the bathroom. She needs me to help her get dressed, to cook for her, to help her shower. Yes, she is learning skills to help her be more independent. But her reality — my reality — is that she will always need assistance.

As Brielle comes closer and closer to adulthood, it terrifies me to think of her future. So for now, I try to focus on the present. Brielle hit puberty in the past year, and she’s just about taller than her short mama.  I can no longer shop for her in the girls sections of the stores.

Bree loves watching her videos on her iPad. Sesame Street, Wiggles. Over and over again. And whenever she lands on a Taylor Swift or Dixie Chicks video, the smile on her face lights up the room and she starts to sway to the music. Then she’ll get up and dance, and run around the house in a burst of happiness.

On our weekends, I take Brielle to music therapy, where she dances and plays instruments and sometimes sings along with her therapist. Bree also goes horseback riding. The rest of the time is spent with her family. We go out to dinner a lot on the weekends, and the local restaurants all know us well. I thankfully find we don’t get as many nasty looks as we used to when Brielle yells or stands up and suddenly darts from the table. Awareness seems to be growing.

Wow, it’s quiet in my house. I cherish this time, and yet I miss the cacophony that is my reality, my life. I count the minutes until Brielle comes charging through the front door, throwing off her shoes and going right to the food pantry to find rice or pasta for me to make her. I think of her infectious smile. I think of the way she comes up behind me while I’m doing dishes and wraps her arms around me.

I think of the person I’ve become because of my life as an autism mama. I had no idea I could ever be this strong. I had no idea I could survive on two hours sleep. I have learned patience and compassion from this beautiful little girl. I have learned to care less about what people think of me — to dance in the middle of a supermarket because my little girl asked me to. To sway along to the music while we’re sitting in a restaurant waiting for our food. To sing at the top of my lungs in the car because I know Brielle might sing along.

There is no rhyme or reason to this post. I don’t have some big awareness message this time.  I’m just grateful for the chance to sit and write. To finish my coffee while it’s still hot. To cherish the silence for a few minutes before I start missing the noise.