I was in the bathroom with Bree the other night. We were out to dinner at a nice restaurant for Mother’s Day. It was probably the fifth time we were in the bathroom that night.
As I stood in the big stall giving toileting directions to my 17-year-old daughter, a woman came in to the bathroom with her little girl, who couldn’t have been more than three or four.
“I want to go in myself, Mommy. I am not a baby. I can do it myself.” So the woman stood right outside the other stall door while her daughter did it all by herself.
And then I walked out of the stall with my daughter, who couldn’t do it all by herself.
An ache hit me as I helped my daughter wash her hands. By time I opened the door to head back to our table, it was gone.
I very rarely let myself get jealous of other moms with their “normal” daughters. I love my daughter with all my heart. I accept her, I embrace her, I am super proud of her. I love being her mom.
But there are moments I am jealous of the moms with daughters who do it all by themselves.
Every once in a while I see a little girl at the nail salon getting a manicure with her mommy. A mother having an actual conversation with their daughter. A girl looking so pretty in a dress, her long hair done nice, carrying a little purse, next to her mama.
I will look over at my daughter, who will let me paint one nail before she pulls away. Who does not speak. Whose hair is cut short because she barely lets me brush it. Who is wearing sweatpants or leggings because everything else is too uncomfortable for her.
For a moment I will let myself miss the daughter I thought I would have had. I miss the mom I could have been, if autism hadn’t shaken up my world.
I allow myself a little pity, I allow myself to hurt. And then I tuck it away and smile and pull my daughter close to my heart. 
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