I Can Choose To Learn

When I think of the great teachers I have had throughout my life, I think of the typical ones many of us have had.

A high school teacher. A family member. Someone we look up too but have never met.

But if I was to truly answer the question honestly, I would tell you that my greatest teacher has been my son Cooper.

He is 10. His autism was discovered at age 3, although it was no secret when the paper was slid across the table to us. It was in a folder. It was official.

Autism Spectrum Disorder.

I didn’t know it then, but it was woven through him like sunlight, unable to be separated out.

With one diagnosis comes more. That’s common. Until they fill up a sheet of paper hidden in a drawer, only pulled out when truly needed.

Because you and I know, they don’t matter in our world. Not really.

Cooper doesn’t say much. He’s never told me a story or talked my ear off. He’s not a world traveler or a savant in any area.

He is a boy with hair coarse like straw. A boy who loves brightly colored leggings. He loves fire trucks, trains, and prefers his favorite things to be square shaped.

He’s more himself than anyone I know. Unapologetically. It’s a gift I tell you. He doesn’t care what’s cool or trending or expensive.

Cooper is more. More everything. Complicated. Happy. Confusing. Funny. Silly. Loud. Quiet.

He will never make a list of great teachers. Or win an award for his teachings.

And yet, he has taught me more than anyone on this earth.

Was I always open to his lessons.

The answer is no. I wasn’t.

Probably because I am the mom, and he is the son. I am the adult, and he is the child.

And because our life is harder. That’s the truth. But from adversity comes strength.

Yesterday, after countless good and great days, my son had a hard moment.

13 moments to be exact.

Do you know how long 13 minutes is? It’s a lifetime.

We were in a lobby. A public place. All we had to do was leave. Open a door. Walk through. Open another door. Home free.

But he got upset. It came on like a tidal wave, consuming both of us. I should have seen it coming. I should have done better.

It was over paper. See, he loves paper. He loves it so much that sometimes I think it’s all he can think about. It consumes him, pulling him away from me, from logic, from happy.

I lost him. I mean, not really. He was on the ground next to me, my body shielding his, protecting his head, and the building, but he was gone.

The color gone from his eyes. My sunshine boy turned off.

I didn’t think the meltdown was going to end and while I portrayed calmness and confidence, I was scared. Terrified really.

Not of the meltdown. Because that is autism.

I was scared because for the first time in his ten years of life, I faced the realization that I am not strong enough to protect him anymore. And that I cannot take him anywhere alone anymore.

I couldn’t move him. I couldn’t lift him. We were stuck.

The what-ifs ran through my head on a ticker as I waited him out.

What if someone calls the police? What if he causes real damage to the building? What if he hurts me or others? Or himself?

I was truly alone. All eyes on us.

After 13 minutes, it ended. He got up, and we left.

My hands shook as I buckled his seatbelt. They shook harder as I started the car and backed out of the parking lot to drive home.

And I finally took a breath.

The tears fell hot and fast. I couldn’t stop them.

I cried because I was a failure. I cried because I couldn’t stop him. I cried because what kind of mother can’t control her own child. I cried because our life is harder. I cried because I can’t fix this.

I took an hour after for my pity party. Although, that’s not really what is was. It was bigger than that.

Because knowing that I am not strong enough physically to keep my own son safe, is a very real problem. It’s not a small one people. It’s monumental. It will change our whole life once again.

After his nap, he came back to me. The light returned to his eyes. He hugged me. He climbed his tween body into my lap and laid his head on my chest and I whispered in his ear….

‘We will do better next time buddy.’

And I reassured him that he is loved. And he is good. And that he tried is best.

I promised him I would keep him safe forever.

As I held him I thought about the future.

A teenager. A man. It’s coming.

And good golly, I am getting older.

I reminded myself, that while I may not always have an abundance of choices, I can choose to learn and ultimately do better.

He is my greatest teacher.

That’s what I will focus on. Learning from him. From hard situations. From our lowest points.

And I will give myself the grace to be sad too. Because that is allowed.

Finding Cooper’s Voice is a safe, humorous, caring and honest place where you can celebrate the unique challenges of parenting a special needs child. Because you’re never alone in the struggles you face. And once you find your people, your allies, your village….all the challenges and struggles will seem just a little bit easier. Welcome to our journey. You can also follow us on Facebook, subscribe for exclusive videos, and subscribe to our newsletter.