Autism Mom Quotes

Why was it considered normal for a girl to live for fashion and makeup, but not car engines or bugs? And what about sports fanatics? My mom had a boyfriend who would flip out if he missed even a minute of a football game. Wouldn't that be what doctors considered autistic behavior?

Life is too hard to behave normal all the time. Just the other day my mom told me I should learn to behave more neurotypically because then I would make more friends. This attitude is truly not great -- insisting that I behave in a way that makes no sense to me. This illustrates the hopelessness of trying to be your own person because this means you must behave like everyone else to be accepted. Being different is not seen as a positive trait. I feel if I have to wear a different face, then I will attract people I don't care to know.

I have Asperger's Syndrome. I am an Aspergirl, I am a mom, I am a wife, and I am an individual who sees things in a unique way. I am just like you, only different because I am me.

People ask what the hardest thing is about having an autistic child, and for me the answer is easy. What mom doesn’t want to hear her baby tell her that he loves her or to feel his arms around her?

What's wrong with me? I lose my footing, in here.' He touched his head. 'When a neuro-typical looses their footing, they yell or escape to the TV, or maybe the doctor throws them on depression meds. But when I slip, I fall all the way through. I feel the ground give way and I'm gone. It's a crack -- a crack in what's real, and beneath there I'm stuck. Then, I guess I become someone else. Mom says I still know my name, but I walk a different world. The shrink calls it DID -- Dissociative Identity Disorder -- with a little added autism to spice up my other personality. I suppose he's right, but only I know how it feels to slip through the cracks. Then the monster shows up.

Appearances can be deceiving. Even as my mom witnessed the “glitches” in her own, recently diagnosed daughter—the very distress and disconnects that are characteristic of autism—she did not see autism. She saw stubbornness. Inappropriate choices. Dramatic hysterics.

Of course, when Iris was gone, Mom barely seemed to care until the final hours before evacuation. Maybe it'll be the same for me: Denise will be fine. Oh, she'll be back. It makes me want to laugh when I realize how wrong I am. Of course it won't be the same. I'm not Iris. It'll be: Denise? Denise is gone? Oh, god, no. How long for? She can't be out there by herself. She might've gotten lost. She's—then, confidentially, with that look of hers—she's autistic. What if she...

Every engineer, doctor, and farmer on this ship has relatives on the waiting list, too, and those relatives won’t be drug addicts. Mom’s right: no one would pick her from a waiting list. No one would’ve picked me, either. Usefulness or death can’t be her only options. If being picked from the waiting list isn’t feasible, then the one choice left is to smuggle her in. The back of my mind keeps whispering about the risk, about She’d only be a drain, but I shut it up. There’s a difference between leaving Mom and leaving Mom to die. “I’m glad you agree,” Iris says. “I know it’s not easy.” That’s what I hate. She’s right. It’s not. I still don’t want to break the rules, even if it’s to help Mom. But people on TV never abandon their family; they risk their own lives. That’s what you’re supposed to do. On TV, people just never feel this twisted about it. “Four this afternoon,” I say. “Let’s talk.

I first met this young client when he was eight years old. He was very shy with a calm disposition. He had been diagnosed with a sensory processing disorder and his parents had hired a special tutor. His mother and father were already clients of mine, and his mother was very conscientious with his diet. She was most concerned about his extreme fatigue, how difficult it was to get him up in the morning, and how difficult it was for him to fall asleep. He was also falling asleep at school. In addition, she was concerned he was having difficulty remembering his schoolwork. With sensory processing disorder, children may have difficulty concentrating, planning and organizing, and responding appropriately to external stimuli. It is considered to be a learning disorder that fits into the autism spectrum of disorders. To target his diet and nutritional supplementation, I recommended a comprehensive blood panel, an adrenal profile, a food sensitivity panel, and an organic acids profile to determine vitamin, mineral, and energy deficiency status. His blood panel indicated low thyroid function, iron deficiency, and autoimmune thyroid. His adrenal profile indicated adrenal fatigue. His organic acids test indicated low B vitamins and zinc, low detoxification capacity, and low levels of energy nutrients, particularly magnesium. He was also low in omega-3 fatty acids and sensitive to gluten, dairy, eggs, and corn. Armed with all of that information, he and I worked together to develop a diet based on his test results. I like to involve children in the designing of their diet. That way they get to include the foods they like, learn how to make healthy substitutions for foods they love but can no longer eat, and learn how to improve their overall food choices. He also learned he needed to include protein at all meals, have snacks throughout the day, and what constitutes a healthy snack. I recommended he start with a gut restoration protocol along with iron support; food sensitivities often go hand in hand with leaky gut issues. This would also impact brain function. In the second phase of his program, I added inositol and serotonin support for sleep, thyroid support, DHA, glutathione support (to help regulate autoimmunity), a vitamin and mineral complex, fish oils, B-12, licorice extract for his adrenals, and dopamine and acetylcholine support to improve his concentration, energy, and memory. Within a month, his parents reported that he was falling asleep easily and would wake up with energy in the morning. His concentration improved, as did his ability to remember what he had learned at school. He started to play sports in the afternoon and took the initiative to let his mom know what foods not to include in his diet. He is still on his program three years later, and the improvements

(That saying about how God gives special needs children to special moms is crap. He gives special kids to moms who are already crazy themselves.)

She unwinds her scarf, taking so long about it that I wonder if she expects me to respond. “You were following the rules,” I offer after a minute. It makes her words no more pleasant. Resentment. Was that how she’d looked at me? Then how am I supposed to trust how she looks at me now? My words elicit a thankful smile. “Mostly, though, I knew you could do the job. Did you ever know other autistic people?” I shake my head. I’d heard rumors about one teacher, but never asked him. Mom had encouraged me to find a local support group, but I’d never seen the appeal—or the need. It wouldn’t change anything. I had friends, anyway. Peopleonline, my fellow volunteers at the Way Station. I even got along with Iris’s friends. “Well, I did, and I feel like a fool for never recognizing your autism. I had autistic colleagues at the university. They were accommodated, and they thrived. One researcher came in earlier than everyone else and would stay the longest. I saw the same strengths in you once I knew to look for them. You’re punctual, you’re precise, you’re trustworthy. When you don’t know something, you either figure it out or you ask, and either way, you get it right. I wanted to give you the same chance my colleagues had, and that other Nassau passengers got. One of the doctors is autistic—did you know?” Els silences an incoming call. “Does that answer your question?

I jerk my shoulder back. "Stop trying to touch me." "I only want—" "I'm autistic. Stop it." The words fly out. Immediately, I wish I could take them back. I don't want to be like Mom, pushing my limits into everyone's faces and demanding sympathy. I don't want them to be like Mom, either, telling me it's OK or how sorry they are for me. "Oh." Els takes a backward step into her office. "Damn. Of course you are. I should've seen that." I stare at the ground. "I'm sorry," I try one more time. "I never thought about it. I just thought you were..." Mulish. Antisocial. Disrespectful. Difficult is what she's thinking, just like a dozen teachers and psychologists before her. Just another maladjusted Black girl from the Bijlmer.

It's hard for my autism to be a secret, given the way my mom tells people left and right. It's not that I need it to be one; I just want to tell people myself.

Looking back, this was a monumental time for me as a mom. I had always believed that the professionals in our lives were right, and yes, most of the time they are. But nothing was, or ever will be, textbook with Cooper. The rules that seem to apply to most people, don’t to him. Up is not up and down is not down. I knew I had to find my voice and I had to do it alone.

All Sam can think about is that conversation he had with his mom when they were applying to Castleton all those months ago. She was on her laptop surrounded by a printout of the application and a pile of folders labeled with tabs like Sam–Therapy, typing away. "What about..." He really didn't want to ask her. But he had to know the answer. "What about...my issues?" he finally said. His mom seemed to like the word issues better than autism or disability. She almost never said the last two.

When I was 10 my favorite books were Tom Sawyer, Black Beauty, The Wizard of Oz, and Bambi. These were the original classics, not abridged. And I spent hours each day reading. I learned about so many things, and I read about places that I wished I could visit but never would.

There's nothing like having a daughter with a new boyfriend to remind me that my anniversary is February 14.

I think you need to at least love yourself before you can love another.

How will I forget the memory that happened on the 29th of September 2017? Bunso woke up early that day and asked me if we could paint. Of course, I said yes! I guided his hand in doing soft strokes in creating his requested "fireworks". Then I had to turn off the stove because I was cooking breakfast. When I came back, he was giggling and showed me what he did. He wrote the words 'I LOVE YOU' all by himself and he told me that he wanted to decorate his masterpiece with hearts and stars. I could not control my tears. Tears of joy perhaps because for the very first time, he tried his best to show his love and affection for me through art which he could not express through words. A moment like that has shown me how much God loves me. I may be experiencing struggles, doing more sacrifice, and adjusting to the needs of Bunso like other moms who have kids with special needs. At the end of the day, I know that there is a reason why God has given me Bunso. Perhaps He knows that I can love him unconditionally. Yes, I can and I do truly. I am so glad that he loves me too beyond words can express.

I may be experiencing struggles, doing more sacrifice, and adjusting to the needs of Bunso like other moms who have kids with special needs. At the end of the day, I know that there is a reason why God has given me Bunso. Perhaps He knows that I can love him unconditionally. Yes, I can and I do truly. I am so glad that he loves me too beyond words can express.

One resourceful mom took her son’s fixation on the video game Minecraft and made real wood “Minecraft” blocks for her son and the neighborhood kids to play with. This provided a connection between building things in the virtual world and building structures in the real world.