Here we go, folks.
Buckle up-both literally and emotionally-because we are preparing for that magical unicorn of family experiences: The Road Trip. Four days. Two nights in Montreal. Two Nights in Ottawa. Why, you ask? Oh, just a casual little tour of universities for my daughter who is 17 months younger than her big brother, Daniel.
Let me just say, trying to explain that to Daniel has been one of life’s more humbling moments.
Why is she visiting universities and he’s not? Why does she get to talk about “campus tours” and “dorm life,” and he doesn’t? And let me tell you, I would pay money for someone else to field that conversation for me. Actually, I’d pay double if they could do it without crying in the parking lot afterward.
So yes, we’re off. Our neurodivergent Noah’s Ark is ready to set sail. And just to spice things up, we’re staying in an Airbnb instead of a hotel-because, shocker, everything is wildly expensive and the mere thought of sharing a hotel bed with Daniel for four nights makes me want to stick my head in a vat of expired cottage cheese and scream. But of course, I don’t say that. I calmly, patiently, lovingly (while gritting my teeth so hard I’m one molar away from needing dental surgery) explain to Daniel that an Airbnb is more cost-effective.
He is not impressed.
He is, in fact, emotionally devastated by the idea that this vacation-already a borderline sensory hellscape-will not come with the expected hotel amenities: the continental breakfast, the hallway ice machine, and the all-important elevator. I’ve been informed multiple times that Airbnbs do not provide a breakfast buffet or have elevators. And apparently, this is the hill he’s chosen to die on.
Meanwhile, I’m watching him pack snacks. And by “snacks,” I mean enough food to keep a small military unit alive during a natural disaster.
I swear this kid could open a 24-hour variety store from the backseat. There are protein bars. There are chips. There are pita chips. There is watermelon (questionable for a 5-hour car ride, but hey). There are gummies, fruit snacks, mentos, and an industrial-sized bag of pretzels that could double as a neck pillow.
But I let him do it.
Because you know what I don’t need?
I don’t need him redirecting his hyper-focused energy toward, say, the name of every street between home and Kingston or whether or not Montreal McDonald’s has plum sauce. So, snack hoarding it is.
We choose our battles.
If you’ve ever attempted a road trip with a child with autism, especially one with additional intellectual disabilities, ADHD, anxiety, and an autoimmune disorder for good measure-you know. You know the level of planning it takes. The social stories. The what-ifs. The backups for the backups. The emotional gymnastics required to manage both your child’s needs and your own barely-holding-it-together mental health.
And if you’re like me, you’ve also had a moment (or twelve) where you’ve asked yourself:
“Why are we doing this again?”
But the truth is: because we want to try.
Because our other kids deserve attention and time too.
Because life keeps moving forward whether autism likes it or not.
Because we are not only raising children-we are growing a family. One messy, complicated, beautiful mile at a time.
So yes, we’re going. The car is packed. The cooler is full. Daniel’s suitcase has t-shirts and shorts with all tags cut off, a million pajama shorts and zero interest in university tours-but he’s coming. And we’ll navigate the rest as we go.
Wish me luck.
If all else fails, I’ve packed the tequila.
With love, crumbs and questionable decisions,
One Mom, Two Teens, and a Trunk Full of Bravery.
