Mothers Like Me

Mothers like me
Mothers like me are supposed to be grateful
patient long-suffering saint-ish.

I am none of the above.
I am angry a lot.
Sometimes I’m disappointed
because this is not the life I expected when I heard the words “Pregnant” and “boy”.

I planned to have one of those always-full-of-boys houses.
I couldn’t wait to be the “fun mom”:
the one who lets everyone be loud and crazy and wrestle and stay up too late and eat too much junk.
I looked forward to endless practices
and to yelling from the stands about bad calls.
I would have been so good at being that kind of mom.

Instead I have learned the language of psychological testing special education the I.E.P.
Autism.
I have learned to nod and smile when people say
“you must be so patient” because
I am not patient.
I am practiced
at hearing parroted phrases repeated over and over and over and over
at keeping a straight face while saying keep your hands to yourself
at apologizing.

I will not be one of those mothers who pretends that it isn’t a loss.
My loss
My disappointment
My unfulfilled mom-fantasy.

My son has never failed to be anything but his more-evolved-than-me self.
He is unaware of the word autism.
It wouldn’t interest him:
It isn’t a video game
or a Force Action light saber;
you can’t watch it on Cartoon Network
or eat it
so it has nothing to do with him.