Stacie Sherman

This Mother’s Day, Brielle wakes with the roosters.

She changes her purple pajamas for pink-and-gray ones. They are put on beautifully backwards, with a big white butterfly on her back instead of her front. The old pajamas are in a pile in her bathroom.

Brielle charges into her mama’s room with a Barney DVD in hand. Mama checks her phone: it is 5:30 am. Mom sleepily follows Brielle back to her room and loads up Barney as Brielle giggles and burrows under the comforter. Once the DVD is playing, her mom returns to her room, to her bed. She closes her eyes.

A half hour later, Brielle bursts back into her mom’s bedroom with a giggle and a Wiggles DVD. Mom repeats the process.

Finally, when Brielle comes back for a third time, at 6:30am, her mom starts the day. Brielle’s stepdad offers to help and let mom sleep, but mom declines. Brielle senses victory. She giggles and stops in the kitchen, where she grabs her iPad and hops up onto her favorite stool at the kitchen island. “Aaah,” she tells her mom, shaking a red plastic cup. Mom gives her a drink and then makes herself a cup of coffee. “Cheese,” Brielle says, via her iPad communication board. Mom sleepwalks into the garage, to the refrigerator that stashes all of Brielle’s favorites, and returns with a slice of cheese.

A minute later comes “cheese and crackers,” as mom knew she would request, in a computer-generated voice that is nothing as mom imagines Brielle would sound like if she could say those words. Mom goes over to the side closet and unlocks it, picking one of the crackers and cheesy dip snack packs Brielle eats every day, twice a day. Mom grabs the last pack and tells herself she better buy more ASAP or all hell will break loose later in the Brielle household.

Mom sips her coffee as she watches Brielle eat only the cheese dip, never the crackers, as she does. Mom puts a barrette in Brielle’s hair to keep it out of her eyes while she watches the videos on her iPad for a few minutes. Brielle soon stands and opens the fridge, handing her mom macaroni salad before turning to her room. Mom spoons some into a paper bowl, graps a plastic spoon, takes another sip of her coffee.

By 7:05 am, it’s Sesame Street time. Mom changes the DVD and decides it’s writing time for her. Mother’s Day 2024 is an early one, and that’s just fine.

It’s still pretty dark in the house. Mom sits at the dining room table, watching her daughter feed herself macaroni salad for breakfast. Mom is tired but it’s Mother’s Day, and she’s a mother. Her son is working today, and that’s amazing in and of itself. He’s got a full-time job, a purpose and direction. He surprised his mom last week with a gift, hand-picked from his mom’s favorite store. Mama did good.

By 7:15 it’s another Sesame Street DVD. Brielle can put the DVD into the player but can’t maneuver the remote to start it. As mom waits for the video to load, she climbs on the bed to give Brielle a kiss. “You look tired, Bree, why don’t you go back to sleep.” Brielle appears to agree, hopping up and going to the bathroom. Mom slips a pullup on Brielle just in case, and they return to the bedroom where mom shuts off the TV and DVD player. Brielle burrows under the covers, and mom decides to lay down next to her. The two snuggle for a few, Brielle tangling her feet with her mama’s. But then Brielle jumps back up and gestures toward her closet, indicating she wants to get dressed for the day. Mom stands up and shakes her head no. “It’s too early, Bree.”

Brielle doesn’t like that answer. She whines and throws herself down on the bed, kicking her legs up and punching her own thighs. Mom says nothing, just lies down next to Brielle and tries to calm her. It takes less than a minute, and the two are quiet, staring at each other, mom lying on her back, Brielle on her front. Mom rubs Bree’s back, badly sings “You are my Sunshine,” and combs her fingers through Bree’s curly hair.

After a few minutes, Brielle nudges her mom out of her bed. Mom leaves, shutting the bedroom door quietly behind her. As she returns to the kitchen, she glances at the clock: 7:30 am. She decides to lie on the couch until the next round.

Out comes Brielle at 8am, buck naked and with a determined look in her eye that tells her mother, “I am getting dressed and I am awake. Don’t even think of telling me to go back to sleep.” Enough said.

So the morning was not a storybook Mother’s Day. There was no sleeping in, no breakfast in bed. Life as Brielle’s mother is never typical, and that’s perfectly OK. Brielle’s family doesn’t do storybooks. Brielle eats macaroni salad for breakfast, followed by half an ice cream sandwich, and then runs through the house naked when she wants to get dressed for the day. She wakes up at the crack of ass every Mother’s Day and sleeps in when she has to get up early. Lots of kids do that, not just those with autism.

Few people actually have storybook lives. Or want them. Brielle’s mom doesn’t want one. She has what she wants. Two incredible children who make her a better person every day. Yeah, she’s tired today. But that’s OK. Brielle wouldn’t have it any other way, and that’s OK, too.

In a bit, mom will disappear into her bathroom for a ridiculously long and hot shower. Then she’ll give Brielle a bath and figure out how to entertain her daughter for the hours until their early dinner reservation. Maybe they’ll hit the local Walmart, or McDonald’s, or just drive around killing time and listening to Brielle’s beloved Dixie Chicks.

This is a beautiful quote from Joan Ryan, a journalist who wrote a book about raising her learning-disabled son (changing the he to she for obvious reasons):

“Motherhood is about raising and celebrating the child you have, not the child you thought you would have. It’s about understanding that she is exactly the person she is supposed to be. And that, if you’re lucky, she just might be the teacher who turns you into the person you are supposed to be.”

Brielle’s mom is the person she was supposed to be. Tired today, but blessed every day.