Dropping my Autistic Daughter Off at School on Her Birthday

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nervous, as you are most Mondays. You were so confident that you left home your favorite stuffed animal, that you usually carry with you to give you comfort. You nodded your head toward one of your classmates who was hurrying our way, her giant backpack clung over both of her shoulders.<blockquote id="5a4d">“Mom.” You smiled and, for an instant, I forgot that you have a disability and going to school, and many other daily activities, are hard for you. For that moment, you reminded me of any other teen, being dropped off by her mom at school. “Don’t walk me in. There’s my classmate. I’ll wait and walk in with her.” I squeezed your shoulder, knowing my usual hug might embarrass you on this day of unusual confidence.</blockquote>I scurried back to the car and, as I buckled my seatbelt, I caught sight of your classmate between the swishes of t

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he windshield wipers. Her head was down, her hair blocking her face like a curtain. She was twenty paces ahead of you, having quickened her steps, as you’d tried to fall in line with her pace, while greeting her good morning. It was a series of actions so seemingly simple and casual, yet so incredibly complicated and challenging for you. I looked back at you, holding your cupcakes in the rain, and you were still smiling. As I pulled away, your teacher opened the classroom window and sang out, “Happy Birthday!” as you passed by.It stopped raining by the time you arrived home that afternoon. You shared that you had a big birthday breakfast with your class and everyone loved the cupcakes but you forgot to bring home the umbrella. “So, was it a good day then?” I asked cautiously. “Mom, I had a really great birthday,” you replied.</article></body>

Birthdays are often bittersweet. I wish I could tell my disabled daughter why hers is for me.

It started to rain when I dropped you off at school so I jumped out of the car to grab an umbrella from the back seat. You carried your bag informally over one shoulder, balancing a six-pack of store-bought birthday cupcakes in one hand and the umbrella in the other. Excited to celebrate your 14th birthday, you were not nervous, as you are most Mondays. You were so confident that you left home your favorite stuffed animal, that you usually carry with you to give you comfort. You nodded your head toward one of your classmates who was hurrying our way, her giant backpack clung over both of her shoulders.

“Mom.” You smiled and, for an instant, I forgot that you have a disability and going to school, and many other daily activities, are hard for you. For that moment, you reminded me of any other teen, being dropped off by her mom at school. “Don’t walk me in. There’s my classmate. I’ll wait and walk in with her.” I squeezed your shoulder, knowing my usual hug might embarrass you on this day of unusual confidence.

I scurried back to the car and, as I buckled my seatbelt, I caught sight of your classmate between the swishes of the windshield wipers. Her head was down, her hair blocking her face like a curtain. She was twenty paces ahead of you, having quickened her steps, as you’d tried to fall in line with her pace, while greeting her good morning. It was a series of actions so seemingly simple and casual, yet so incredibly complicated and challenging for you. I looked back at you, holding your cupcakes in the rain, and you were still smiling. As I pulled away, your teacher opened the classroom window and sang out, “Happy Birthday!” as you passed by.

It stopped raining by the time you arrived home that afternoon. You shared that you had a big birthday breakfast with your class and everyone loved the cupcakes but you forgot to bring home the umbrella. “So, was it a good day then?” I asked cautiously. “Mom, I had a really great birthday,” you replied.