Journeys with Autism

I’ve been doing a lot of grieving lately. I’ve been missing my daughter’s childhood terribly. I’m not sure whether I’m missing the child she once was, or the person I once was, or both. I’m not sure there’s a whole lot of difference. Motherhood changed me from who I was before.

From the time I was in my early 20s, I knew that I wanted to be a mom. I didn’t have Ashlynne until I was 34, and then I fell in love with the whole thing. It wasn’t difficult. She was an amazingly easy baby. She even woke up giggling every morning. I kid you not. Giggling.

When I was on maternity leave, we’d go out to the park whenever the sun was out, and then she’d take a nap. Her dad would call from work to see how things were going. I’d tell him that Ashlynne was napping and that I was really exhausted. He’d ask me why I wasn’t catching up on sleep. I’d say, “I can’t. I’m just sitting here, watching her. She’s so incredibly beautiful that I can’t take my eyes off her.”

It seemed as though it would last forever. Of course, people warned me. “Enjoy it now,” they’d say, “because the time just flies by.” Rest assured that while I politely thanked them for their wisdom, I was smugly thinking, “They’re just regretting the fact that they didn’t pay attention to their children. My daughter’s childhood will not fly by. I will be paying attention.”

And I was paying attention. I was doing crafts and letting her use face paint on her tummy. I was homeschooling her, encouraging her creativity and her independence of mind. I was working at home as a writer so that she could see me whenever she wanted. I took pictures of just about everything she did. I kept journals. I kept every piece of artwork. I was determined to be there for every moment I could. And it just kept going and going and going and going.

But now, suddenly, it’s almost over. She’s driving. My car. On the highway. The fact that she only has her learner’s permit, and that my husband is always in the car when she drives, does not detract from how old that makes me feel. And how strangely unnecessary.

Oh, yes, I know. I’m still necessary. I’m her mom. I help her with her problems (the ones she tells me about). I listen. I empathize. I give good advice. I let her drive my car. (Did I mention that?) I read the awesome creative writing she does, and I look at the amazing photographs she takes. I give her money for the movies. I used to ask her whether she needed help with her homework, but I quit doing that last year. She told me that she was grown-up enough to take care of it herself. And she takes care of it just fine.

When did it all begin to wind down? The first indicator I had was the day last year that she said to me, “Mom, there are things about my life you do not know.” Once I got over the shock, I said, “Yes, you’re a teenager, and you deserve some privacy.” I even believed it.

Does that make me a good mom? Yes, it does. Give me an award and I’ll frame it.

But it won’t stop time.

And now, my daughter has crossed over from childhood to young adulthood. My friend Sue saw her a few weeks ago, and she cried when she saw what a beautiful young woman she’s become. When Sue and I first met, our daughters were 9. Now they’re 16. How is that possible?

I don’t know what to do with myself. I mean, I do lots of things. I blog. I do my community service work. I keep the house together. I knit. I do my art. I’ve relearned Torah cantillation. I see my OT. Now that the spring is here, I’m gardening, which I love. In fact, I spent much of yesterday digging and weeding and transplanting.

But everything is different now. Everything I did before was in the service of being Ashlynne’s mother. It gave me a focus—spiritually, emotionally, physically, and intellectually. When Ashlynne was born, I thought, “When she’s 18, I’ll be 52. That’s a long time away. I’ll be old by then.” Now I’m almost 51. No more babies. No more intensive child-raising. No going back. Only forward. But to where?

I can’t work anymore. There is no new career. For most of my life, I powered through my sensory overload, anxiety, and general Aspie confusion with all the willpower and tenacity at my disposal. I worked full-time, homeschooled, and did enough honest labor for three or four people. My last manager used to joke that when I had the flu, I worked at normal human speed.

I worked from the time I was 17 until I was 47. And now, I can’t work anymore. I lived in defiance of my neurology for 50 years. I can’t do it anymore. My husband says I’m like the Road Runner in the cartoon. Everything was fine, even when he ran himself right off a cliff. Even then, he could still run in mid-air. Until he looked down.

When I discovered my Asperger’s, I looked down. It’s a good thing I did. But now, all of a sudden, I’m an Aspie with a young woman for a daughter. How did that happen?

These days, I seem to vacillate between hope and grief. Yesterday, I was sitting on my front porch, and the little girl who lives across the street came over. Because our family is new to the neighborhood, we’re just getting to know our neighbors. She introduced herself and told me she was eight years old. We talked a little, and then she skipped down the street with her dog. It was a wonderful, reassuring moment. There are still little kids around. They’ll come over and talk a bit. I’m still in the flow of life.

And then I realized that half of Ashlynne’s life ago, she was eight, skipping down the street like that little girl. I got really teary, just as I am right now.

I’m certain this grieving is all very normal. Our kids are only on loan to us, so the grieving is inevitable.

Is it worth it? Yes, even with the grieving, it’s worth it. All of it.

© 2009 by Rachel Cohen-Rottenberg