Stacie Sherman

I blinked, and my baby turned 18. 

The years, the moments have passed too quickly.

If I could only go back, I would have written about every one of your smiles, every laugh. I would have photographed all of them and created huge photo albums of you. Every time you grabbed my hand, or did something new. All the ways you have brought joy to my life. All the ways you have made me a better person.

Brielle Rae, my very own ray of sunshine.

You are two inches taller than me, and yet you never hesitate when I ask if you want to snuggle. I get on the couch and you come over and sit between my legs, your back against my chest. I recline and wrap my arms around you, cover us with a blanket, put on a TV show that has music I can sing to you. I smell your hair and kiss your cheek as you turn your head to stare at me. Sometimes, if I look away, you turn my head back to look at you. I wrap my arms tighter and breathe you in. 

So many memories, some better than others.

The toughest was the day I came home and realized you had autism. It was that sudden. One day you had autism. And not the very mild autism I had come to know from raising your big brother. The autism that isn’t on TV. Not those kids who become doctors or basketball stars or artists. In the autism story they do tell, the kids learn to speak, they’re just delayed. They learn their numbers and their letters, just a little bit later than most.

You’re 18 and you have the autism they don’t make TV shows about. You don’t read books or play the piano. I’m still helping you bathe and get dressed. When we go out, I hold your hand tightly in the parking lot and I can’t let you out of my sight for one second

But you have the kind of autism that changes the world. That teaches people to be better people. That inspires. That touches hearts everywhere. That fills moms with awe and pride and superhuman strength.

And now you are a strong, beautiful adult. Typing those five letters socks me in the gut. Because adults should be independent. And you, my baby girl, will never be.

No matter what happens to me or you, know this: Nobody loves you as much as I do.

You are my heart, beating outside of my body. Fragile, unprotected, vulnerable, naïve. And I am your shield, your guardian.. for as long as we both shall live.

This love I have for you reminds me that it is an incredibly special day, and that we have so much to celebrate.

Baby girl, you have come so far.

Your communication skills have blossomed in the care of an amazing group of teachers who push you to your full potential. You are in the community, out and about, jumping and swaying, usually smiling, sitting at restaurants, telling people what you want with your iPad app. Cleaning up after yourself, shopping in stores. Training for a future job! Stocking shelves, filing papers, cleaning tables.

You can do more than I make you do, so in recent weeks I am trying not to do it all. I am pushing myself to let you put on your own pajamas, shoes. Get your own drink, help me make your bed. We are a work in progress, but we are working on progress.

Brielle, you are a source of inspiration. So many things that come easy for most take you so much more time and effort. And yet you keep learning, smiling, improving. You keep pushing yourself as much as you are being pushed.

I did not become a Super Mom because I was meant to be a Super Mom. I became a Super Mom because you and your brother taught me how to be a Super Mom. A more patient mom. A mom who can exist on three hours sleep. Who can food shop in 12 minutes. Who can read your mind. Who can help your brother with his homework while doing her own. A mom who can build her day around taking you to the park and leave five minutes later when you’re just not feeling it.

A mom who will climb in bed with you when you’re upset, whisper to you and rub your belly until you are calm. A mom who will jump up and down or sing at the top of her lungs just to turn your frown into a smile. A mom who will spend $200 at the grocery store and then end up back there an hour later when you ask so nicely for something she forgot.

I have learned all that, and I am so grateful for my teachers: you and your brother.

There are so many amazing things you have learned to do over the years. There were a few times I doubted it were possible. Yet here we are, and you can tell me what you want to eat just by pressing a little button on your iPad app. You can hear a song on the car radio and find a video of it on YouTube a few minutes later. You can get dressed, even if you’re adorably mismatched and inside out. You can brush your teeth, even if you only get a few of them. You can ride a horse. Bowl. Roller skate. Swim. You are amazing!

Just because you can’t speak, doesn’t mean you can’t tell me how much you love me. You do it every day.

So on this day, I remember the beautiful blond baby who brought and brings such joy to my life. I remember the way I dressed you all in pink for your first day home from the hospital. I remember the pumpkin picking, the hayrides, the long walks, the days at the lake or the pool club. I think about the way we dance to the Dixie Chicks and Taylor Swift, and the way you look at me with happiness when I’m singing off-key to you.

There are the days you sit so patiently while I straighten your hair, or attempt to braid it badly. The times you come up behind me, rest your head on my back and make these tiny little sounds like you’re trying so hard to talk to me.

Your childhood has been filled with so many moments. So many I will cherish forever and ever.

My beautiful and precious Brielle Rae, I blinked and you are no longer a child. But a new chapter begins, and I have nothing but hope. You amaze me every day. And we are in this together. Today, tomorrow, forever.

You are my sunshine.

Happy Happy Birthday to my amazing 18-year-old.