My first-born asked me the other day why I didn’t write about him like I wrote about my daughter. I had no good answer.
Maybe I thought he would be embarrassed. Maybe I was trying to protect him from this cruel world.
He is just as special, just as inspiring, just as amazing. And he, too, faces challenges in this environment that’s filled with intolerance, expectations and a push for conformity.
My son is smart and funny, polite and caring. He’s an incredible musician who’s a natural on stage. His blue eyes and bright smile and big laugh light up a room. He does his homework, studies for his tests, practices guitar without me telling him to do so.
He also has Asperger’s, a disorder that affects the way he interacts with others. His uniqueness has become more apparent to others, and to him, as he moves through high school.
He doesn’t play team sports. He doesn’t hang with the “popular” kids. He can misunderstand or miss social cues. He gets fixated on a topic and likes to talk about it for long periods of time.
He also knows more about those topics than anyone else. He likes wrestling and heavy metal music. He can tell you where any wrestler was born, and on what date, and when they won their first championship match. He can hear a song on the radio and know who is singing it — and who is playing guitar — and when it was recorded.
He is the sweetest teenager you will ever meet. He would give a kid his lunch if they didn’t have any. He holds his sister’s hand in the parking lot. He tells me he loves me a dozen times a day and kisses me good night every night.
Watch what you say to him, because he will remember it, forever. “Mom, remember on June 2, 2012, when you called that guy an a-hole while we were driving to dinner at TGI Friday’s?” THAT kind of memory. And he’ll remember what he ate that night at the restaurant, what you ate.
When I gave birth to him almost 16 years ago, it was on his due date, after my water broke at midnight. He’s been punctual ever since. He’s the only teenager I know who can get up for school (at 6:20 a.m. every day) without an alarm clock.
It became apparent when he was a toddler that his communication was delayed. But with one-on-one help, he was soon chatting up a storm. As he got older, he needed extra help.
People can be mean and judgmental, rules can be tough, norms and standards can be ridiculous. Thanks to bullies and cliques and puberty and social media, my son has gotten a rude awakening.
After a bit of a rough patch he has survived the wake-up call and turned the corner. Every day he grows more social, more confident.
I’ve tried to give him all the help he needs. But reality bites. He’s got to share my attention with his autistic younger sister, who is non-verbal and very dependent on me. He will be in the middle of telling me a story and I’ll have to stop him because I hear my daughter enter the bathroom and know she needs my help.
Just last night, he kept asking me to help him with his homework, at the same time I was trying to shovel some dinner in my mouth and as I tried to stop my daughter from taking the Band-Aid off her finger where she had cut herself and blood was oozing. Do it yourself, I keep telling him, each time my voice growing louder.
“Mom, are you tired?” he asks. “Yeah, bud,” I say. “I’m real tired. I’m sorry.”
He hugs me and we finish his homework. All is forgiven — but never forgotten.
I have no doubt my boy will be OK. He’s already more than OK. He’s incredible. And I learn from him just as much as I learn from my daughter — patience, humor, compassion, tolerance, strength. They make my life extra special.
If I do just one thing right by my son, it will be to help him own his uniqueness. I wouldn’t change a thing about him, except to make him truly understand and appreciate how amazing he is.
If only I could change the others. Until then, I’ve got his back. And you don’t want to mess with this mama bear. 
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