other child, other mother
by cheri brackett

I was sitting on a blanket of sunny grass in the middle of the north woods of Maine in the month of June. My husband, my daughter, Audrey, then 14 months, and I sitting like sponges absorbing the long overdue warmth kissing our bodies.

Suddenly, Audrey was up, and started off to explore the world around her. At the time, I was finishing my graduate studies in early childhood development, and quickly realized that this was her valiant attempt to individuate – to momentarily dis-identify with her protectors, her caretakers, her parents and venture off in search of her “self” – unattached to any other. I also knew that this would only last a brief moment – she was too tied into us, too identified with us as her parents to release her attachment for very long. After all, we were “good” parents – attentive and loving, literally racing each other to her crib each morning when we heard her awakening.

I looked at Tom in that knowing, expert way—chin lifted, eye brows raised, “Watch this,” I said as Audrey wandered farther away from us and into the shadowed wood. “She’ll turn around in a few seconds just to make sure that we’re still here.” Several seconds passed into minutes, and both Tom and I were on our feet, amused and bewildered, as we followed our individuating cherub into the dark and unfamiliar places ahead of her.

Seven years have passed and you can still find us following our now 7 year old cherub into unknown, unmapped and often times dark and grievous places. A little over one year ago Audrey was diagnosed as having Autism. Autism Spectrum “Dis”-order (ASD), has received spotlight after spotlight of national attention in recent months from media sources such as NBC, CBS, Newsweek Magazine, because it now affects one in every 166 children. And still, we don’t know why, how, or what to do about it. As parents, it’s a daily, hourly, minute by minute journey to learn what to do with it.

I was standing in the hallway of the University of Maine at Farmington Nursery School. As advised, the day after Audrey was born, I placed her name on the school’s enrollment waiting list for which she would be eligible to attend when she turned three. This was the best child-centered, play-based, early educational program available in the area. Specifically designed for 3, 4, and 5-year old children and incorporating creative, individualized curriculum based on developmentally appropriate practice, this program fosters young children’s social, emotional and cognitive development and introduces them to positive early classroom experiences. Wow! The perfect nursery experience for my daughter.

And here she was, completing her first day. I was so excited to see her, to hear about her first experiences of engaging with her peers, with the most important work at her hands – play. I crossed the room to the water table where she submerged her toys. Audrey looked up, saw me approaching and screamed, “NO! NO!!!!!!!!!”

Aghast, I looked around me, trying to find the culprit of Audrey’s agitation . . . only to discover that it was me. To my amazement, as every other child in the room happily united with his or her parent, Audrey protested our re-union. It took several minutes, and a magic hatful of re-directions to finally get her out the door with me and to our car. We went home immediately afterwards, exhausted.

I was standing in the customer service line at a local department store, waiting for what was definitely an inordinate amount of time to exchange an item so that Audrey, then 6, and I could go to the children’s section and find her a book. Little by little, I had been attempting to bring Audrey into the “mainstream” places in our town – just short jaunts to the grocery store, library, department stores, and restaurants. Tom and I feel that limited exposure to everyday happenings out in our community will help her to navigate the storms of stimulation that often occur in public places.

Several minutes passed, and the cashier seemed oblivious to the impatience that swelled in those of us waiting in line. Tensions increased, as did the numbers of customers waiting, but social mores forbade any of us to personally confront the cashier. What would we say? —“I’m wondering if you could be more sensitive to the time constraints of those of us in line . . .” or “Ma’am, could you please perform your job a little faster?” Or, how about, “LADY WILL YOU HURRY UP!” —which is exactly what Audrey screamed when she had reached her limit of waiting. Sensing the wide-eyed gazes and sideways glances from those around me, I felt embarrassment, failure and shame weave around me like a straight-jacket. Numbly, I explained to Audrey that “Yes, the cashier is taking a long time, but we need to be patient.”

“I AM being patient,” she screamed, this time throwing her body on the floor. In resolution and surrender, I looked at those women around me and said “Well, that’s the beauty of Autism . . . she actually says what we’re all thinking.” Audrey and I stayed in line, completed our transaction, and eventually found a wonderful book for her to read. We went home immediately afterwards, exhausted.

Why am I telling you these stories? First, because I need to share them. Being a mother of an “other” child, a child outside the bell curve of “typical” development, places me as her mother in the same margins of that bell. No matter how hard I try, how much prevention or intervention I do, how much education or discipline I engage, my ways as a mother will always be and look different from “typically developing motherhood.” This is a very painful and isolating experience – but it is what it is. I embrace the reality that Audrey will never look, act, perform, function, be like other children in our community.

The second reason that I’m telling you these stories is because you need to hear them.  You need to hear my testimonies as a mother with a child who will not and cannot respond to me in the way the textbooks guarantee she will, if only I will follow their developmental recipes.  You need to hear that regardless of how well-versed, prepared, patient, loving, or resourceful I become, I cannot yield the results that I should be yielding according to these socially constructed equations. You need to hear them, because maybe not in this area of mothering, but in some part of your being in this world, you also may have felt diminished, marginalized, separated, judged by a set of cultural standards that you nor anyone else could or should measure up to.  Because somewhere along the way, it’s almost certain that you also have experienced shame and failure, lack of exoneration and being cherished, despite your actual desires, motives and sincerest intentions. 

It doesn’t matter what the experience is, although both your and my experiences are very real and precious. What truly matters is that we can create sacred space to hold each others’ experiences – tenderly, reverently, and without judgment. That we can be present for one another – in this moment, in the middle of the night, in office break rooms and bathrooms, in our homes.

Audrey is now in the first grade.  This is her seventh school placement, three of which asked her (and us) to leave.  After seven and a half years of too many doctor consultations and thousands of hours of specialized services, I’m just now able to catch slight glimpses of the gift of Audrey—smack in the middle of the isolation, misunderstandings, even judgments that have entered my life since she passed through my body and into this world. She’s a gift that demands that I remain aware of this present moment – in all the awkwardness and frustration, in the rigor of honoring yet managing her presence in the world. The fact that Audrey is, and that she is who she is, has caused my life to remain alert, open, and in a constant state of “letting go.”  

That is the greatest gift – my learning to let go. Daily, hourly, in each moment that calls for it, I let go of my expectations of what I imagined, wanted, and felt I deserved – as a mother, as a partner, as a creator and implementer in my work, as a member of this community, and on down the line.  I breathe deeply and pay close attention to that breath, as I let go of the resistance, the disappointment, the anxiety that packages itself in my mind and body about the way things are supposed to be, or should have been. 

Eckhart Tolle writes that suffering and “otherness” are pathways to enlightenment (The Power of Now, 1999).  I’m not saying that having a child with autism has enlightened me, rather that I am now more sensitive to opportunities of enlightenment in my life.  Audrey’s insistence of “nowness” and “staying in the moment” (albeit HER moment), calls me to do the same.  More and more I’m finding myself really sharing my moment with her moment in real time – not in my head, not as I’m doing or thinking something else simultaneously, but right then, right now.  For these moments, I am grateful.

This way of being is also beginning to permeate other areas of my life situation. In my work, I find myself remembering that “now” is the only part of my living experience that is actually alive. I’ve also found that when I have a differing opinion or way of perceiving or doing something from someone else, that honoring the “otherness” of that person helps me accept that person’s uniqueness and gifts. In that honoring, I’ve been blessed with friends that I would never have had the opportunity or foresight to have chosen. I’ve made friends that I can weep with, and swear with, and truly belly-laugh with because of the sacred spaces we’ve created for one another in our stories, our sufferings and joys, in our different ways of being in the world.

Again, I find myself grateful – for otherness, for enlightenment, and in this very moment, for Audrey.

 

Cheri Brackett works in Mental Health Education at MAHEC. She lives in Asheville where she also has a private practice as a psychotherapist. Cheri may be reached via email at cabrackett@bellsouth.net.