Kristen – Page 4 – Good Marching

by Kristen - July 27, 2015July 27, 2015

If the jeans fit…

A New York mother has been making news recently for her clothing line aimed at youth with autism, and other disabilities that can turn getting dressed into an exhausting, time-consuming affair.

For years, Lauren Thierry’s autistic son pulled his shirts on backwards or struggled to zip up his jeans. So Thierry came up with a solution.

Her “Independence Day Clothing” collection has no zippers, buttons, or tags, and both tops and bottoms are completely reversible. Apparently they’re a cinch to put on, with no scratchy lace or fancy piping to exacerbate sensory integration issues. Garments can even be equipped with GPS trackers for kids prone to wandering. And, says the woman behind the line, the clothes are hip to boot, featuring styles any young person would willingly choose to wear.

For parents grappling with autism’s incessant demands, the idea seems to have taken off.

Now why didn’t I think of that? I’m schooled in the challenges of raising a child with autism, after all, the getting-dressed-ordeal just one of a slew we faced every day.

Like Thierry’s, my son needed continual prompting with everyday tasks that typical kids eventually master on their own: bathing, grooming, eating, and putting clothes on in the morning.

A former news anchor for CNN, Thierry recognized that the simple act of getting autistic children dressed can be like navigating a “grueling obstacle course.” Independence Day’s “utility design” is the first of its kind, she says, the equivalent to mainstream clothing outlets like Gap, Abercrombie or J.Crew, but designed specifically to help the disabled population fit in.

If only I’d hatched this clever plan! Then I’d be the genius-mom brightening news snippets, recounting the evolution of my brainstorm. My smiling face would be popping up all over Facebook as the disabilities community heralded my brilliant, sanity-saving concept. I’d be the proprietor of a sleek, well-designed website already sold out of nearly half its wares, gobbled up by parents grateful for tangible help at last.

I could have been a clothing contender.

Oh, who am I kidding?

When my son was young I was lucky to get myself dressed for work before the day exploded, much less devise innovative clothing options for the disabled in my spare time. My creative energies were spent pondering Daniel’s preference for animal flashcards over those with more practical applications, or why he could blow bubbles with uncanny dexterity but fail to pull his shoelaces tight enough to keep his sneakers on.

Consultations with behaviorists to analyze my son’s random biting attacks edged out meetings with clothing designers or marketing pros. Putting my house back together at day’s end trumped putting the finishing touches on reversible rugby shirts, hands down.

The truth is, I just didn’t have the energy to be an autism mom and a groundbreaking entrepreneur, too. My sensory-friendly hat is well and truly off to Ms. Thierry, who seems, somehow, to have successfully done both.

As it happened, getting dressed wasn’t one of Daniel’s main challenges, anyway. After selecting his day’s ensemble, I could be reasonably sure he’d emerge downstairs wearing it, with just a sock adjustment or button alignment necessary before his bus arrived in the driveway.

In retrospect, what I really needed was a magic laundry fairy to ensure that the clothes I’d washed and folded were placed in their appropriate drawers.

If that innovation had been available when my son was twelve, Daniel may not have gone to school one day wearing a pair of my jeans.

Jeans he’d pulled on, zipped up, and buttoned by himself, just fine.

by Kristen - June 18, 2015June 18, 2015

Cornered

Among other things that irk me, drivers who fail to pull fully into their parking spaces, leaving their butt ends in the driving lane, annoy me to no end.

At the mall recently I encountered an all-star offender, nearly half an SUV hanging out of its allotted space, a prime spot just four slots back from the front of the lot.

Muttering, I steered around the vehicle, noting that the driver remained in his seat, talking, it appeared, on a cell phone.

After parking my own car, I cast a baleful glance his way as I walked toward the store, shaking my head and gesturing in “what the hell?” fashion as I passed.

Entering Macy’s, a stab of remorse at my peevishness made me turn back and glance at the car. The driver was leaning out his door and looking back, as if just noticing his poor parking skills.

Then, with mounting dismay, I watched as he got out and began pushing the SUV forward, right hand on the steering wheel, knees bent with the effort of moving the car.

The car I now realized had stalled.

Mortified, I hurried to the third floor to buy the gift I’d gone to purchase. I’d planned to take the package back to my car before an appointment at the Apple store, but hesitated, afraid the motorist I’d wrongly condemned would spot me as I returned.

Warily, I approached the glass doors and peeked out. Man and car remained, joined now by a minivan parked nearby. After transferring several items from the backseat of the stalled car, the man finally climbed into the minivan, and I waited for it to drive away so I could slink to my car unobserved.

They didn’t move. Skulking by the door as customers came and went, I realized the man and his rescuer had settled in to wait for a tow truck.

And there I stood, frozen, too ashamed to approach my car, trapped by my own bad behavior.

This humiliating episode should logically segue into commentary on erroneous judgments, stories we’ve all heard about persons, often disabled, unfairly attacked when others jump to conclusions about behavior that to the casual observer is extreme or inappropriate.

In truth, though, I have not personally endured a truly terrible episode of judgment in relation to my disabled son, at least none that I’ve allowed myself to remember. Sure, we’ve withstood sidelong, perplexed, or disapproving glances, startled comments here or there. But Daniel’s autism is pronounced enough that most people soon discern that something beyond the norm is at work, that he is indeed “legitimately” disabled.

And if I’m honest, people rarely had the chance to point out my son’s inappropriate behavior. I was too quick for that, heading off reproach with explanation before it began.

For years I carried my son’s disability ahead of me, preempting anticipated criticism before it could hurt either of us. Actually, Daniel is insulated by the very disorder that makes him vulnerable. But I couldn’t bear to have him misunderstood, deemed a brat or “behavior problem” when his issues went much deeper, were, in fact, beyond his control. In public, my instinct to protect him kicked into overdrive, drawing a cloak of justification around his shoulders, shielding him from an insensitive world willing to indict my child along with autism’s distasteful side effects.

But I was acutely aware of how I imagined the world saw me, too: an ineffective, irresponsible mother, inadequate to the job I had longed for for years. I knew in my heart that I was failing my son, and my daughter, the whole family structure I was supposed to have nurtured and shaped to perfection.

I feared society’s judgment, and wanted it to know it wasn’t my fault.

Can I admit this to myself? Can I write this in this blog? That at my most overwhelmed — lost and flailing and self-pitying — I offered up an excuse, an au courant disability to absolve me of who I’d become, to explain the wretched chaos of my world?

Because life was chaotic, chronically so. Nothing had prepared me for the sea change autism brought to our lives, the grief and anger and guilt; the turbulent days and endless nights; the exhaustion and unbroken fear for Daniel’s future, the trauma it was inflicting on his sister. As my son became an enigma I struggled to understand, I became a person I could barely tolerate, but felt powerless to change.

How much easier to seek absolution for my failings than do the hard work of modifying them; I was already working as hard as I could. I wanted a pass, forgiveness for my shortcomings: my petulance with store clerks when my patience was shot; my anxiety, which imbued so many occasions; my isolation from friends whose “normal” children brought heartache and resentment; my stubborn unwillingness to accept this thing I could not change, even as I was assured by well-meaning friends that I’d been specially chosen by God to embrace it.

There’s a reason I’m like this, I wanted to scream. This responsibility is devouring me, has reduced me to a snapping, cornered animal, fighting back the only way I know how.

I remember years ago asking a neighbor if she could pick up my daughter from a birthday party her daughter was also attending, dreading the ordeal of dragging Daniel into a noisy gymnastics center certain to provoke a scene.

She sighed pointedly before agreeing, and I recall bitching later to a friend, “Why couldn’t she have just done it cheerfully?” Did she have any idea how onerous such a simple task would be for me, how easy she had it by comparison? Couldn’t she see I was drowning here?

Why didn’t everyone understand that?

Harboring this attitude for years, of course, made me less tolerant myself, venting my accumulated angst at ill-placed, irrational targets. Years of angry defensiveness is pretty exhausting. And even in my self-centered misery I knew I wasn’t unique at all. Our world is awash with misfortune and heartbreak and setbacks, large and small. I had it no worse than millions of people, and in ways too numerous to count, I had it better.

Acknowledging this truth, however, doesn’t prevent my anger from lashing out sideways at the wrong mark entirely. It doesn’t stop me from being an ass in the mall parking lot.

While trying to examine this behavioral flaw I was blindsided. My son’s case manager called recently to warn us that Daniel’s funding for one-on-one care is at risk. He is doing so well in his new placement that the agency in control of funding thinks he no longer needs the personal aide assigned to him.

I was floored. Of course he’s doing well; he finally has the resources he’s needed all along to do so. It felt like hearing a doctor tell a patient with high blood pressure that since his condition is now under control, he no longer needs his medication. Even worse, loss of this funding would mean Daniel’s expulsion from the new group home where he is flourishing: one-on-one care for 15 hours a day was a condition of their accepting him.

The panic came flooding back once more, the “now what?” alarm that’s been sounding since we learned the word autism, the crippling uncertainty we’ve lived with for years, but which has never lost its power to stun, to paralyze, to corner.

Honestly? Acknowledging that I’m still responsible for my behavior regardless of the fear and difficulty I’m facing pisses me off all over again. Oh, I’m much better than I used to be, no longer the self-conscious, brittle woman convinced the world has nothing more pressing at hand than to observe me with fascinated disdain.

Despite accepting long ago that my son’s autism will bring a lifelong series of challenges, though, each new instance triggers the fervid need to protect him that I’ve felt since he was a child. I think I’ll always experience that snapping, cornered-animal defensiveness when it comes to his welfare.

But there are plenty of legitimate targets for my wrath. Maybe, someday, I’ll learn to come out of my corner swinging at the right ones.

“Cornered” image by StocksbyAnna

by Kristen - May 8, 2015

Two Rooms

The first time I visited the place where I would leave my mother for the rest of her life I knew I had been there before.

It wasn’t physical similarity to an earlier place that brought this sense of déjà vu. The room had no colorful alphabet, or calendar, or map of the United States. No adaptive technology devices, unless you counted the wheelchair straps securing their frail cargo. There were no computers with modified touch screens, or work desks tailored for special students; no vocational training stations for teaching skills that aim, someday, at employment.

But I knew this room. I knew this feeling. I had been here before.

****

She didn’t recognize that she was moving, that her ride in the Medicar that afternoon would terminate at a new facility better equipped to handle patients advanced as far as she has in this disease. She is unaware that she is surrounded now by strangers, caregivers to whom we entrust her welfare, her reliance on others complete. Protected, at least, by this disease that strips all else – character, autonomy, achievement – my mother is spared knowing that these rooms will house the conclusion of her days.

She has been gone for many months now, lost to the appalling affects of Alzheimer’s.

I tell myself – for how can I know? – that the worst days are behind her; the confusion, the agitation, the gradual, insidious losses chipping away at her hold on the qualities that had shaped her: her talent as a fashion illustrator; her style sense and skill as designer and seamstress; the classic looks that made her, always, the most beautiful woman in the room. She doesn’t appear to mourn these losses. The disease which has stolen these things has the grace to blunt the pain of their passing.

I remember, though. In that tour of the nursing home, the dayroom filled with fading ghosts who share the vacant gaze of my mother’s eyes, who slump and gape and shout and moan, I knew unsparingly what my mother has lost. My mind silently rebelled: “It can’t be that she belongs here, that this is what a life of vibrance and accomplishment has come to. Not my mother…”

And there I was again, in that other room, which I’d visited eight years earlier, several weeks after I was told that the special education program in our home school had proven insufficient for the level of my son’s disability. There were other programs, alternate classrooms, that perhaps we must consider, which taught not just academics, but life skills…

Of course I knew that this was true. Autism is a profound disorder. Lifelong. I understood. I did. I recognized, I acknowledged, I concurred. Wearing the upbeat smile of mother-advocate, I visited the Education and Life Skills classroom prepared, I thought, to embrace whatever was necessary to help my boy.

The staff was warm, nurturing as they cared for and educated these special children, some in wheel chairs or leg-braces, some who did not speak but communicated by other, atypical means; conditions familiar to me but more threatening as a whole, a strange society my son was bidden to join, branded now as one of the collective of the disabled.

But the peculiarities of my child were not to be permanent, you see, because things would change, somehow — they would. It would be different someday for my boy. My son would be the exception, the miracle…

They had just finished lunch, in their contained world-classroom, and a scattering of potato chips lay on the floor beneath their table, unremarkable, certainly, following an elementary school meal. Yet my whole world came down to that pile of spilled food, the mess and disorder and hopelessness it represented, the gaping maw of an alien world.

Banishing the image to the attic in my mind reserved for such troubling realities, I continued with the orientation, nodding at staff, commenting; agreeing, agreeable, numbed by the cunning strength of denial.

My shelter of self-deception gave way that evening as I struggled to clean another spot from the carpet on the family room floor. Andy found me on my knees, scrubbing frantically at a stain I knew would be permanent, and he said, “Hon – what is it? Let me, I’ll do that – ”

“Not my boy!” I screamed. “Not my boy! Oh God, not my boy!”

****

I’m told my mother has adjusted well, cocooned for the most part in her impenetrable world, but smiling from time to time. Perhaps she remembers some earlier pleasure: a favorite pet, my father’s touch, the enduring tune of a well-loved hymn.

Images flash now through my own memory: a turquoise party dress she’d sewn for me, and the perfectly matched shoes she found, triumphantly, on sale in Fields’ basement; my mother weeping as she cradled our lifeless terrier at the side of a rural Minnesota highway; her knowing smile when I was five years old as I told her, solemnly, that I’d never get married, because I would never leave her.

My son laughs frequently, and often I don’t know why. But his joy is infectious, and we laugh with him. Vacation days so eagerly anticipated by other children are more difficult for him; he misses his classroom. The routine, the schedule, the pre-vocational training at which he excels, have given him an independence I once despaired of ever seeing.

I don’t know if he senses the enormity of what this disorder has cost him, if he recognizes in his own way that there was once more to be hoped for.

But I don’t think so. Insulated from such doubts and questioning and regret, he is happy in the world he knows.

I will remember this.

My mother died on April 28, 2005, at the age of 78.

by Kristen - April 30, 2015April 30, 2015

Letting Go of Sisyphus

I wrote this essay 12 years ago, and am struck by how much has changed since that time, and how much is still the same.

The call from my son’s teacher caught me off guard that Tuesday afternoon. Daniel had bitten again, this time another child, his peer buddy from the integrated classroom.

Despite a history of such incidents, the news was a blow, and I chastised myself for breaking down. This was old ground, after all. My son is 11 years old, and I am seasoned at this game, an old hand at the mercurial nature of this disorder. An expert at setbacks, of despairing quietly alone, or ranting wildly to anyone at hand. Of trying new tactics and behavior plans, of adjusting medication, of learning physical restraints to subdue without injury.

I am an veteran now, of autism: hanging on, living through, never, never giving up.

My son had excelled in recent months, with a new interest in words and flashcards, proficiency on the computer, the endearing habit of shadowing me as I moved throughout our home. More than ever before he sought our company, remarkable in relation to the isolated, self-contained world he so often preferred. These modest gains were welcome respite from the struggles with behavior, the anxiety that pervaded my thoughts each day.

Now his progress seemed a cruel sham.

“I was set up,” I thought desperately, as his teacher detailed the circumstances of the latest incident. “He is past that now, he must be past that now.”

The “bitee,” my son’s peer buddy, was just fine, handling this un-buddy-like display with surprising maturity, testimony, perhaps, to sensitivity training: the blending of children like my boy with normally developing children, whose ups and downs do not include raging, aggressive outbursts, like the one later that same Tuesday morning during community training at the mall. That episode required full body restraint, twice, by his teacher, in the middle of the food court.

People stared, of course, and wondered what was wrong with my child, who appears normal, on the surface; who is, in fact, beautiful. I can say that, you know, unashamed: he is beautiful. He has that going for him.

****

We are working on the animal cards tonight. He struggles to decipher the name of the animal printed on one side, waiting for the moment I turn the card, and he sees the picture, for he knows dozens of animals now by sight.

“Deh.” “Rahba.” “Tee-ah”. Deer. Rabbit. Tiger. Speech apraxia makes discerning his words difficult, but I understand him. He is learning. He watches my lips for a hint: earnest, heartrending, trying so hard to gain a skill so burdensome.

“Cah.” “Whey.” Cat. Whale.

Good job, Daniel. High five.

****

I fear, in the bleak moments like Tuesday afternoon, that this disorder will engulf me, the person I could have become washed away by the demands of caring for this boy, of loving him so dearly. I see myself forced to assume a role I’m incapable of performing, certainly not performing well. My hold is weakening on the half-formed dream that someday – soon – I’ll begin my real life, my chance to become the person I’d envisioned fading with each passing day: a person of worth, of accomplishment, of substance.

Reading the loose script drafted for my son and me, I sense that key themes of my life have already been written, that I will not so much forge my own identity as step faltering into one chosen on my behalf. Ready or not, I must adapt: as a warrior, an advocate, a wretched Sisyphus pushing a rock up a hill, laden by numb certainty that it will fall, again, and again, and again. I know now that another teacher’s call will come, another incident demanding attention, or remedy, or stop-gap solution, sapping the energy and time and will to discover the real person I was supposed to be.

Other parents seem to manage better than I do, adjusting to these circumstances more gracefully, understanding, perhaps, that success is most fully measured by our ability to meet with dignity the unwelcome demands which touch all our lives. I am ashamed of my struggle to find meaning from this challenge. God picked me, after all, to mother this special child, so He must think I’m very special. Or so I’ve been told. Sure, I wanted to be special; this just isn’t the kind of special I had in mind.

I’d rather cling to the clouding image of the life I thought I’d lead, grasping an ice sculpture after the party when the guests are gone, as it slowly melts in my hands, little pieces of my life dripping away until its shape is unrecognizable. Oh, yes, I want to hold on. Denial is preferable to facing the dark fear that my legacy will be my failure to give my son a normal life; that even my profound love for him will not make him well; that the best I can do is keep pushing a rock and never give up.

****

“Zee-ah.” “Duh.” Zebra. Duck. Always tap the raccoon card because its tail is distinctive. Unlikely to read by conventional methods, Daniel progresses slowly, one word at a time. We hope to build a sight vocabulary through painstaking repetition. “Aight.” Alligator. I stroke his neck when we come to giraffe and comment, “See how long this is!” As I turn the next card he watches my face and I want so much to cheat and help him. “Wah,” he says. Walrus! There is no joy more stunning than his pride as I cry with delight, “Good boy, Daniel! My smart, beautiful boy!” You will read someday if it takes us ten years. You can learn to read …

****

Oh, and they say that God does for us what we can’t do for ourselves. Kicking and screaming, it seems I am becoming what I wanted to be all along. What a painful path to understanding that while I longed to be “exceptional,” I was unprepared for circumstances that truly are so. How slow I’ve been to recognize that the challenges I’ve been fighting have made me more than I was, forced me to become a woman with more on her mind than what to serve at her next dinner party. The real life I’ve been waiting for is here, with these flashcards, and they are my salvation.

****

It’s a difficult evening, and we are alone together. Undefined discontent, expressed through Daniel’s whining and floor-flopping, has been simmering all afternoon. “Just an hour until bedtime,” I tell myself. “Just an hour more to go.”

The phone rings, and I converse distractedly with a friend. Daniel joins me on the sofa, back arching and crabby, thrusting a packet of flashcards in my lap. They are the more difficult set of animals, words he has not yet mastered. I would have preferred a more familiar exercise to calm him and possibly avert a tantrum. Winding down my conversation I begin holding up cards, the pictures facing away from him, trying to concentrate on my friend’s words. I hear my son’s frustration as he struggles with a word he hasn’t memorized. And giving him now my full attention I see him tapping his neck.

Giraffe. He recognizes the word giraffe.

The rock doesn’t seem so heavy just now.

We went up the hill today.

by Kristen - April 18, 2015April 27, 2015

Cracks in the Sidewalk

One of the appealing features of the neighborhood where my first husband and I bought our home was the sidewalk encircling the whole block. It was a common gathering place for residents, and an ideal circuit for walkers, runners or strollers.

As a young mother I made dozens of laps along the half-mile oval from my front door and back, pushing a stroller, pulling a wagon, or walking hand in hand with my children. The sidewalk served as a natural boundary for the kids, too; Natalie, at least, learned to stay on the right side of the walk, clear of the street beyond.

When she was about six years old, I sat on my front steps as Natalie ran down that sidewalk, eager to reach her best friends, sisters who’d just come from their house across the street. I watched as my happy daughter suddenly tripped on a crack and sprawled face first on the concrete, landing, fortuitously, at the feet of our dentist, the neighbor girls’ father, Lenny.

It looked worse than it was. No broken teeth, no split lip, not even a bitten tongue. Just a scrape and a scare, tears quickly soothed in my genial, even-tempered daughter. An unexpected mishap, soon forgotten, one of countless more to come over the course of her childhood.

For years after my son’s diagnosis I desperately craved a road map, some clue to what was coming next. I don’t know if I feel that way any more. Would I have had the courage to continue, to face all that lay ahead, if I knew how often, how painfully I would fall?

Years ago my daughter and I attended a “psychic” party hosted by Natalie’s stepmother, Mary. With no strong views on clairvoyance going in, I came out a believer: with a glimpse of my palm, Deb discerned facets of my life she couldn’t possibly have known, but did: I was an insomniac, a fledgling writer; I had another child, who did not speak, and had recently lost my father. It was uncanny.

We visited Deb several times in the ensuing years. She was so frequently on target that I trusted her gift, although, perhaps heedlessly, never actually based life decisions on her insights. It was all just in fun.

Two months ago Natalie and a few girlfriends scheduled readings with Deb, and drove from Lincoln Park to Downer’s Grove on a Wednesday evening during a heavy snowstorm. Although she’d just turned 25, I couldn’t help worrying, and sent Natalie a text about eight p.m. to make sure they weren’t stranded in a snowbank.

Undoubtedly it would have been better for both of us had I not done so. Our texting went pretty much like this:

“Andy says driving is awful so let me know when you guys get home, OK? xo”

“I will. Anita is finishing her reading and then Ari still has hers so it’ll be a while before we leave”

“Have you had yours?”

“Yes”

“Well??”

“All positive… She sees a big move for me though in 6 months so start preparing yourself”

“Wtf?!?”

“Hahahahahahaha”

“A geographic move???” …. “Andy says ‘Maybe she’s moving back home’”

“Hahahahahahaha. Yes a geographic move.”

“Noooooooooooo! (wailing emoji face) You can’t leave me! (wailing emoji) Omg my life is over”

“She said you would react that way…”

“Screw that shit!”

“Oh calm down.”

“What about your work?? Your licensing??? Omg”

“Ok, you’re ruining the fun, please stop”

“Where are you going?? I’m coming with you”

“I shouldn’t have said anything to you”

(Forty-five minute break while I attempted to compose myself)

“Well still let me know when you get home please”

“I will, we’re finally heading back now”

(One hour later): “Made it safely home alive”

“Good! Thanks for letting me know. xo”

“xoxoxoxoxoxo”

Yeah, I know.

Overreactive. Needy. Profane, to boot.

In the weeks since that exchange, I’ve struggled to understand my response, my utter panic at the thought of Natalie leaving the Chicago area, the seismic shift in our relationship I’ve allowed myself to imagine such a move would provoke. My husband suggests that the changing relationship with my son makes me more sensitive to any threat to my role in Natalie’s life.

But it’s more than that. Daniel’s disability has influenced our lives and our relationship immeasurably, but my bond with Natalie is unique. My relationship with my daughter is one of the foundations of my life. Losing her would be unbearable.

My mind leaps to such extremes, to all or nothing scenarios. I imagine her taking a job on another coast, building a separate life, starting a family I’ll scarcely know. I’ll be a part-time character in the cast of her world, cramming into rushed visits the intimacies we now routinely share. She’ll become a whole new person as I watch, wistfully, from the sidelines. Just as millions of moms do every day.

I don’t want to be one of those moms.

I want my daughter, near at hand, coming here on her day off to do laundry, stock up on paper towels, and store sweaters in my attic when the weather turns warm. I want to go to Macy’s together and buy her a lipstick, to witness her reaction as she sorts through her Easter basket and finds the “Instant Weirdo Glasses” I’ve tucked inside. I want to be a quick drive away if she gets ill, to be the one she calls when her apartment loses power for the first time. I want to join her and Andy at the dining room table as she completes her first grown-up tax return, to trade scornful commentary while watching The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. I want to share salads at Panera, face to face, as she describes the young man she’s dating now, her friendships, the challenges and rewards of her new career.

For years I longed to know what lies ahead. But if what’s ahead is the loss of one ounce of what I have with my daughter, I don’t want to know.

Of course I’m not alone in these fears, the gnawing uncertainty of what life has in store. Doubt is normal, trust in a benevolent future hard to maintain in a world so often unkind. I miss the unguarded trust I once held, though, during the happiest days of my life: drifting along that tree-lined sidewalk with my perfect baby daughter, rich with the fullness of my world, the profound good fortune I knew, even then, I’d done nothing to earn. When autism threw a wrench in that trust, I never fully recovered.

The future is ripe with possibility now, especially in relation to my daughter. She is thriving and maturing and finding her own way, the very circumstances for which I’ve been hoping to lay the groundwork for years. Since the day she was born I’ve believed that my most essential role is to help her find her own path, yet I’m afraid to succeed if it means losing a part of her. I want her to stay with me, right here, on my side of the sidewalk.

I remember another moment on that sidewalk, when three-year-old Natalie ran toward me, laughing with joy. Her dress billowed behind her as her bare feet slapped the pavement with quick, confident steps, her smile clear and open and sure as she came to me, and I understood then: You will never forget this moment, Kristen. You’ll always have this moment in time.

I’m glad you aren’t afraid to run, beautiful girl. The cracks in the sidewalk are no match for you.

And they’re no match for my love for you, the bond sealing your heart to mine.

That bond is strong enough to stretch around the world and back.