Is my kid worse than your kid?

I am convinced all moms frequently ask themselves some version of the following question:  Is my kid worse than your kid?  This question comes in many forms.  It comes with and without judgement from others and from ourselves.  It comes before leaving for a playdate.  It comes at the grocery store.  It comes with a meltdown in Target--especially when you see that mom with her perfect hair and her perfect outfit and her perfect little child, quietly engaged as they actually sit still in the cart eating (not throwing or threatening to spit out their food) and every other word is "please" and "thank you." And if you're anything like me you catch a glimpse of yourself in a mirror looking like you just left a yoga class (which you probably did), spilled lunch on your lap while you drove like a crazy person (both of which you probably did, too) just to make it to a store you hate entering to purchase things you wish you didn't need with children who refuse to listen to a word you say.  Hot Mess doesn't even come close to the walking disaster you see in the mirror.  In any case,  the root of this question about our children remains the same:  it's all about fear.  We are afraid of how others view us and many of our daily decisions as parents are rooted in this fear.  I say I'm not motivated by what others think of me.  But that's a lie I tell myself and so does everyone else I know.  We all care about the opinions of those around us.  I'm convinced it's part of human nature.  We seek other's opinions because they provide a perspective outside ourselves.  Sometimes, however, we place too much value in the perceptions of others which can often provoke unnecessary fear.  Ultimately, this question about our children isn't really about our children.  It's about how we see ourselves as parents.

I find myself asking this question because, on some level, I believe my parenting skills are judged based on my children's behavior.  But I also ask it for different reasons.  I ask myself if my son is as bad off as others because his "autistic" behaviors are hidden behind an otherwise "normal" looking child.  Translation:  he doesn't look like he's sick on the outside therefore his outbursts, social idiosyncrasies or inability to appropriately communicate are seen as direct, negative reflections of my shortcomings as a mom.  And as Alder continues to recover from autism, these symptomatic behaviors continue to diminish.  Yet my feelings associated with these behaviors do not.

When I interact with other parents who's children have similar neurological struggles as Alder, I find myself asking the following question:  are my son's disadvantages as significant as your child's?  Unpacking this statement makes me want to run.  Literally.  I feel like an injured wildebeest fleeing from a pack of hyenas--broken and under-dogged.  My fight or flight mechanism is triggered by this question mostly because I feel badly about comparing my child to anyone.  And I feel even worse hoping, though hard to admit, that my kid has an advantage over someone.  Not because I wish anyone the kind of havoc wreaked on a household that lives with a child with autism.  But because I desperately need to know someone else can relate to my pain and struggles.  I want reassurance my life could be worse, could be harder.  I want to know that other moms can feel that same heartache as they watch their child excluded from playing with other children on the playground or are made fun of for not quite fitting in.  I desperately need to know that, at times, my kid is NOT worse than yours.  Not because I'm vindictive or want to bring others down.   I just need to know I'm not alone, that he's not alone.  Autism can be a lonely illness and no one wants to be alone watching their child suffer. 

Alder's life has been harder than that of my other children.  And his illness has had a deep impact on our family and how we navigate life--from switching schools multiple times to massively restricted diets to constant communication with teachers, coaches and other parents, to insane medical bills, endless doctor appointments and concentrated efforts spent on his recovery.  Our life is different than it otherwise would be if Alder hadn't become ill.  We can't (and often don't want to) eat at most restaurants.  We've spent years bypassing family vacations to pay for medical treatments.  Alder can't have playdates at a friend's house without a full nutritional rundown between the parents and Jay and I.  We've never been on a proper couple's getaway because we can't leave Alder with anyone for long because of his diet.  Our biggest monthly expense is our grocery bill.  We avoid birthday parties and trick our kids into believing if they leave their holiday candy on the porch at night with a note the "Candy Witch" will take the candy and leave a gift.  Candid as these antics sound, I refuse to minimize his struggles.  I watched this child shatter a picture frame in our kitchen when he was 3 because he couldn't yet talk enough to express how anxious, overwhelmed and confused he was to have a house full of people and lots of children playing with his toys.  His struggles run deep. And if I want to get real about why I want to flee when I start comparing my children--but specifically Alder--to others, it could only mean it's because I take his disadvantages personally. The sheer thought of him being left out of a peer activity or of his eyes blinking hard to hold back tears while he's trying to understand a challenging concept evokes the kind of pain inside my body that only a mother with a child with disabilities can understand.  And I think I let him down.

But don't we all take our children's behaviors personally?  Our children directly reflect who we are.  I find myself balancing on a tightrope where I hold myself and my children accountable for our behaviors while finding grace in the flaws, inaccuracies, mistakes, poor choices, wins, challenges, disappointments and fears. The rope is simply, at times, set differently for Alder.  And it's being raised higher and higher everyday.  One day I'm confident his tightrope will be set much higher than most of us simply because he's had to learn to navigate life full of struggles that most of us can't being to understand.  He's fallen much harder than most of us ever will.  Sometimes helping him negotiate that rope presents challenges that tap into the deepest part of my pride and ego.  Because that rope is sometimes different than my other children or of his peer group, I feel like I failed him and haven't always provided a soft landing.  I didn't always catch him when he fell, not because I didn't try, but simply because I didn't know how.  We are the safety net for our children beneath the tightrope they walk everyday.  My hope for my children is not to hold their hands the entire way but to provide a soft landing when they fall. I'm still figuring out this delicate balance and continue to fall and pick myself up.  But for every fall, I am grateful.  And all of my children--especially Alder--have made me a better mom for forcing me to pick myself up and get back on that tightrope because I watch him do it over and over and over again.  We can learn a lot from our kids if we move aside enough pride and fear and just pay attention.  

Is my kid worse than your kid?  Probably.  Sometimes.  But not always (thank goodness).