If you invite me out-girls’ night, wine tasting, dinner, even a backyard “let’s sit in silence and pretend we’re socializing”-chances are I will say, “Maybe.” Or “I’ll check my schedule.” Or my personal favourite: “That sounds amazing!”
Know this: I’m not coming.
Not because I don’t want to. Oh God, I want to.
I want to sit with friends and laugh until my mascara runs. I want to talk about things that have nothing to do with autism, bowel movements, or gluten-free baking failures. I want to wear something that doesn’t smell like anxiety sweat and crushed rice crackers.
But this isn’t that season of my life.
And if I’m being brutally honest-it might never be.
You see, I’m the mother of a 19-year-old boy with autism, and significant intellectual disabilities. Add in ADHD, anxiety, and an autoimmune disorder just for spice, and you’ve got yourself the deluxe parenting combo that nobody orders on purpose. I’ve also got 14 years of professional experience in autism intervention, so not only am I living it-I train people on how to survive it. And even with all that, I still sometimes feel like I’m drowning in the deep end of a pool I didn’t choose to swim in.
So, what does going out for an evening mean for me?
It means making dinner in advance.
It means prepping the house like I’m leaving a newborn alone with a hamster.
It means crafting an exit strategy that would make a military general week with pride.
It means talking to my son over and over-days in advance-about where I’m going, who will be with him, who I am going out with, what time I’ll be home, what he’ll eat, what show he’ll watch, and what colour the sky might be while I’m gone.
Because any gap in that plan could send his anxiety hurtling off a cliff, and that cliff usually lands right on the head of the person I begged to cover me for three hours.
And let’s not even get into the cost of respite.
Most people budget for brunch. I’m budgeting for the adult human equivalent of crisis babysitting with a side of behaviour intervention.
Also? I’m chained to my phone the whole time I’m “out.”
If I miss a text, that missed text because a full-blown panic meltdown. And guess what? Now I feel guilty and whoever is watching him is texting things like, “He’s kicking and hitting and won’t stop asking when you will reply to his text.”
So, yeah-I’m not coming.
But please, please don’t stop inviting me.
In a world that already feels like it’s shutting its doors on families like mine, those invites are tiny acts of grace. Of love. Of hope. They remind me that I’m not invisible. That someone still thinks of me beyond the labels of “special needs mom”, “behaviour consultant” or “that one who never shows up.”
Don’t take it personally when I say no.
Don’t assume I don’t care.
Don’t read my silence as rejection.
I’m still here buried under a schedule, navigating meltdowns, overthinking every decision and praying I haven’t forgotten to pre-cook the chicken.
If I could show up I would.
If I could say yes without fear and planning and backup plans for my backup plans, I’d be there with bells on (okay, maybe not bells, but at least clean pants).
Please keep me on your invite list, even if I keep flaking.
Please keep sending that “Want to come?” text, even if you already know the answer.
It means everything.
With love, and from the comfort of my couch that I never leave,
One Mom Who’s Always There in Spirit (and Usually in Pajamas)
