I have an essay in the January issue of Portland Monthly about my sweet son. For those who aren’t from here, Portland Monthly is a high brow mag about our city. Read the essay here: http://www.portlandmonthlymag.com/issues/current-issue/articles/p-towndiary0109/

On March 31st, Babble posted my essay, “What’s Wrong With This Picture?” about my primary struggle when it comes to parenting my autistic son: other people. I was not particularly surprised by the comments the article received. Many were supportive, from people who could relate. My favorite was from an autistic adult who said she wished her own mother had had this attitude. A few were less than supportive, even angry at me for…for what? For deciding that my son doesn’t need to fit other people’s expectations. For suggesting that our culture has failed to present accurate images of what autism might be. The anger is fascinating to me – what are these people afraid of? Largely, their accusations were entirely off base. For instance, some claimed I was suggesting that kids should have no treatment, or that they shouldn’t do what they feel they need to make their children comfortable in the world. These responses are examples of how limited our language about autism is, how helping our children and accepting them for who they are don’t have to be mutually exculsive. I’m particularly aware of how neuro-centric (I made that word up) so much thinking is: your son must make friends to be happy, and he must make friends in ways that I can recognize or it isn’t friendship. He must communicate like I communicate, or else it isn’t communication at all. We are up against some pretty stubborn walls.

I have to believe that my son is growing up in a time of change, that by the time he’s an adult there will be many conspicuous communities for him to join, many opportunities and spaces where he can make himself at home. Meanwhile, I’ll do everything I can to keep the rest of the world from trying to make him feel limited or less than. A few people wrote in their comments that Ezra was lucky to have me, which is so nice, but it’s not true. Ezra came to me as he is. He’s a phenomenal person in so many ways. Sometimes he shows me astounding things, things I can barely grasp they are so profound. His smiles and hugs are the purest examples of joy and love I’ve ever known. I can’t change him, even if I wanted to, which I don’t. My only job – for both my children – is to protect their whole spirits from others’ attempts to mangle them. What I’m trying to say is, I’m the one who’s lucky to be his mother.