I am fortunate to have great friends - some with autistic children like mine, some with "neurotypical" children, and some who don't have children.
I treasure the camaraderie of my fellow autism moms because they understand the challenges my husband and I face with our two boys. But even more important, they understand why the tiny victories are such a big deal. They get my excitement over the developmental milestones that come naturally to 1- and 2-year olds but took years of therapy and hard work for my boys to achieve.
And I love my friends who have no connection with autism. They are sympathetic when I am frustrated and happy when I'm excited, even when they don't entirely understand what I'm talking about. With them I get to have actual adult conversations about things other than my children - an opportunity any mother can appreciate.
Of course, we also talk a lot about family. They tell me stories about the adorable or amazing or infuriating things their kids do. I laugh or groan and try to commiserate, even if I can't really relate to their perfectly ordinary experiences.
I love their stories because I love my friends. Their happiness is important to me, so what's going on in their families is important to me.
But I would be lying if I said their stories didn't sometimes stir up old sadness. On my bad days, when my emotions are close to the surface, hearing about the cute things their kids say and do reminds me of how far behind my boys are.
It's a problem I also run into sometimes on Facebook, when all the adorable pictures and status updates push my emotional buttons. Photos of friends' new babies remind me of how happy I was when my sons were born, and of the painful years that followed. Updates of their older children's accomplishments spark worries about my boys' future and get me thinking of all the experiences they will likely never have.
But that's just the reality of loss, isn't it? I think most of us carry a bit of unhealed grief that re-emerges when triggered by a memory or emotion. I know a number of people who have lost someone they loved, and many more whose lives took unexpected and tragic turns and were never the same. For some, grief is a crushing burden from which they never recover. But for most, it becomes a part of the fabric of who they are.
My grief for the loss of a life I never actually had is now a piece of my identity, and it has changed my understanding of what it means to live a worthwhile existence. It's taught me the value of being connected to others, because without those connections it's easy to become consumed by one's own sadness. My friendships remind me that the world is bigger than me and that I am more than my grief and my challenges. When I am with my friends, I am more than just Kenny and Theo's mom.
So I rejoice in my friends' stories and "like" their Facebook updates about their kids. I try to be supportive and helpful when life is tough and to be good company when it's time to celebrate. I treasure my friends because sharing in each other's joys and sorrows is a reminder that beautiful and amazing things happen in the world every day. My friends are who they are because of the ups and downs they have experienced. They are wonderful people, and I am grateful to be part of their lives.
