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I love stories. I
love a plot twist, a drama, a tall tale, even a parable. I crave the sated feeling of a story’s
conclusion. My behavior has turned from
carefree to controlling in my parenting years, and to be fair, I likely wasn’t
as carefree as I’d like to remember myself prior to having kids. This obsession I have with control has become
somewhat necessary with my son’s autism, but I’m beginning to realize there are
some hidden dangers in trying to control everything.
The increasing pursuit of control leads to an inevitable
rise in frustration. Because, most
things you actually can’t control. You
can’t control kids. You can’t control
life. You can’t control autism. So when I look at the picture above, this
rare moment of my son with his adorable smile, showing me that there IS a story
behind his eyes, reminding me that there IS an actual person inside his body -
a being with personality, with a sense of humor, with an opinion and a mind and
a story to tell - I feel a small release in the control engine. I feel my foot slipping from the pedal, to
allow room for my son to choose the next move.
And this silly, blurry moment, captured after so many failed trials,
reminds me to try and be less controlling, to be silent and listen to the story
he’s trying to tell. Everyone has a
story. And everyone has a right to tell
their own story. I just hope I can
change my behavior so that my son won’t have to SCREAM his story out because I’m
trying to control the plot development.
I will do my very best to mother this child, but I’ve finally begun to
realize that he doesn’t need me to tell his story for him. He has a story that will be his own if I can
just get out of his way. He’ll need
support, structure, and a team that refuses to quit. But, he’ll also need the space to tell his
own tale.
That’s where we are this summer. Maybe it just takes me a bit longer to figure
out the mothering thing, or to let go enough to allow beautiful things to
happen. I know that there was definitely
a period of time where the control, the intervention and constant redirection
was necessary. But now, 3 to 4 years
later, after some measured progress, I’m realizing that I still have a 7 year
old son. Though he may not be exactly
like every other 7 year olds; he is still a growing person who has much to
share. I look forward to quieting down
and listening when he’s ready to tell us his tale.
