My Title Is Parent

Another privacy policy arrived in the mailbox today. These legal documents, created to ensure our protection, have inundated our populace. They have become commonplace, often unread or discarded. The mass dissemination of these confidentiality disclosures may be desensitizing their own relevance.

As parents, we assume responsibility for the lives of our children. By necessity, infants abdicate all rights to their caregivers instantaneously at birth. Maintaining a child’s privacy is a task no guardian should take lightly.

Parents blog about the adventures of their children. Slideshows chronicling an entire childhood are viewable on Facebook. We tweet about a first tooth on Twitter. Our children’s lives have become open books in a public forum. I wonder, how much exposure is too much?

Social media outlets allow us to share family photos expeditiously. The latest child YouTube sensation is often viewed by millions. Watching a giggling baby or talented toddler brightens the day. These exchanges may innocently expose our children to a global audience.

Preserving our children’s privacy isn’t an easy effort. As the parent of a differently-abled child, it’s an internal conflict, I continuously struggle to reconcile. Do I have the right, morally, to disclose my child’s diagnosis to the world?

When my son, Ben, was originally diagnosed with Asperger’s Syndrome, I spoke about it sparingly. Subconsciously, I hoped Ben would outgrow it. Consciously, I didn’t want Ben to be labeled.

Initially, Ben’s dissimilarities were easy to camouflage. As he matured and entered a mainstream educational institution, Ben’s distinct characteristics were evident. Concealment was no longer an option. Although exposed, Ben was still sheltered within our local community.

Now as an entrepreneur, blogger, and autism advocate, I’ve made the decision to openly discuss Ben. Am I entitled to share his story? Some may argue that it’s our narrative. They would be right. But these parables only encompass a chapter of my life. For Ben, they comprise the entirety of his biography.

Time, and Ben, will determine if I’ve made the correct choices. Parenting is subjective. Even with the greatest intentions, guardians make mistakes. We trust the successes outweigh the failures.

In the meantime, I relish my personification in the history of Ben’s adventures. Hopefully, Ben will appreciate his personage in our family chronicle, as well.

Every year, families of elementary school students are transported to a fantasy world via the annual school play. My son, Ben, has been practicing for weeks in anticipation of his debut as a rain drop in his first grade production of Spring Starts Here.

Ben has been in numerous productions throughout his academic career. In previous years, Ben has been more of a stage prop, than a participant.  As a child with Asperger’s Syndrome, Ben is often overwhelmed by loud noises and excessively stimulated by an audience.

Before every student theatrical creation, my anxiety begins to build. Historically, Ben has always taken the stage with his classmates, but his focus has never been on the show. Ben withdraws into a world of his own. A world I want to see, but I can’t.

On the day of this year’s performance, Ben was excited. I was nervous. As a parent, I always hope for the best. As a realist, I know wishes don’t always come true.

My rain drop bounded on stage enthusiastically. Ben recited every word on cue.  He sang every lyric of “Springtime” with zeal. As he stood on stage, for the first time, Ben seamlessly blended with his peers. My heart swelled with pride.

As the play neared its conclusion, with mere minutes left, Ben began vigorously flapping his hands. He stood in the front row clearly visible to the assemblage.

Tears welled in my eyes. Not because my pride had waned. For forty minutes, Ben had the performance of his lifetime. Unfortunately, no one in the audience will recognize or appreciate the accomplishments Ben displayed throughout the majority of the play. When they look at Ben, they’ll only remember those last few moments.

I’ll never forget this appearance . I know the progress Ben has made. I recall every obstacle he has overcome. If only everyone could see that my rain drop was miscast. Ben is actually a ray of sunshine.

April is National Autism Awareness Month. My desire is that others will learn to look past the unusual ticks and sounds of autism. Although we can’t see inside the world of those afflicted with autism spectrum disorders, we have had glimpses. Allow a child on the autism spectrum into your world. You won’t regret it. Everyone enjoys the sunshine.

My seven-year-old son, Ben, called to me as I was cooking dinner, “Mom, someone’s at our house.”  As I walked to the front window, I heard him gasp, “It’s the naughty boy from the bus, who has been bothering me.”

A week earlier, as we were lying in bed, Ben told me, “two boys are being mean to me and keep ripping my paper.”  I was surprised, because my son rarely initiates a serious conversation. You see, he has Asperger’s Syndrome, a disorder on the autism spectrum.

To most children, a piece of paper has little significance. Ben’s strip of paper is his security blanket, his “stim” of choice. He carries it with him wherever he goes. At bed time, Ben carefully places the paper on the headboard. When he wakes; it’s the first thing he looks for.

I don’t know what transpired on the school bus between the boys. I imagine other children on the bus think Ben is different. He is. Researchers struggle to find answers explaining autism spectrum disorders. I don’t expect a bus full of elementary school children to comprehend why my child is enthralled with a fragment of paper.

Parenting a differently-abled child can be overwhelming. Although I adore my child, sometimes I envy other mothers whose lives seem so much easier than mine. Certainly my parenting responsibilities are more daunting than theirs.

When Ben and I answered the door, John, the boy standing before us, wasn’t quite the bully I imagined. He was small. He looked as if he had been crying for a week. John apologized to Ben.

My chest tightened. I wanted to hug the little boy standing there. He seemed lost, frightened.

Ben was excited. He blurted enthusiastically, “Maybe you could come to my house to play some day. How about Sunday?”

My heart ached, knowing Sunday would never come. Watching this sweet, loving boy unconditionally forgive John, and open his heart to a peer, was almost more than I could bear. It’s possible, my child may never find the friend he so desperately wants.

I felt tears stinging my eyes. I glanced at John’s mother. Tears were in her eyes too. She was gracious and kind. I wondered. Would I have had her courage?  Would I have approached a stranger’s door? Would I have brought my child to apologize, knowing he was scared and uncomfortable, regardless of the lesson?

Sometimes we get lost in our own journey. Parenting is an enormous task, regardless of individual circumstance. It’s especially difficult when a parent dedicates themselves to doing it right. Today reminded me of that. John’s mother taught him something today, but she educated me, as well. She’s a mother who did it right.

Throughout our lives, we each embody numerous roles. Humans juggle many relationships concurrently.  At each stage of development, the significance of these personifications varies. All individuals have defined a relationship hierarchy for themselves, whether consciously or subconsciously. In our earliest years, our kinship lies with our parents. Later we develop friendships and intimate interconnections, which become essential components of our happiness.

As we mature, and become adults, our associations become more complex.  For most parents, having children dramatically alters the landscape of their lives. I was no exception. Prior to parenthood, my primary affiliations were to my parents, husband, and employer. Motherhood shook the core of my relationship pyramid. Instantaneously, upon my first child’s birth, I was overwhelmed with a sense of accountability for this tiny person, my tiny person.

In time, the urgency of infancy wanes.  The innate feeling of parental responsibility does not. I often reflect on the fellowships I’ve been blessed with in my life. I know which role is the most important. My business card title reads, Parent, President. Parent is not simply my title, it’s my greatest contribution, biggest joy, and honored privilege.