The story

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.