I’m sitting on bleachers watching my boys play soccer on separate fields, and I’m fighting back tears. And then I’m wondering how did I get to be that mom that fights back tears at soccer practice? I wasn’t going to be that mom, and here I am.

Why? Why am I crying in my chai at soccer? Well, as is often the case as a parent, it’s complicated. It’s not often that my two boys are interested in the same activity. It’s not often that we have an evening free to let them play side by side while I type in relative peace. It’s not often that my oldest son wants to do the things that his peers want to do. And it’s not often that he looks perfectly typical doing them. Tonight he looks typical. Average. Normal. Joyful. Playful. And that, my friends, is why I’m crying in my chai.

In April of this year, my seven-year-old was diagnosed with Autism Spectrum Disorder. Before that, basically since the day he was born, most things were really hard. Really unexpected. Really unpredictable. Really not typical. So, the diagnosis didn’t exactly surprise us. It was more that it formalized suspicions we’d had but tried our best to underplay. Lots of things about the news were a relief. (It’s helpful to have a label for something we’d really struggled to understand and maybe even more helpful to help others understand.) But then there’s the other darker part – the forced consideration about what this means, the wondering if it will change absolutely everything that comes after, the worry that nothing will ever be normal for him (or us, dare I admit it) moving forward.

There’s a new weight to things we see him struggle with. Is it an off day, or is it Autism? Am I imagining things, or is he getting bullied? Is he consciously making poor choices or is this behavior a result of his brain being wired differently? Do we let him flounder so he can learn, or do we protect him from the frustration that’s so commonly led to an explosion (that’s so commonly led to months of downward spiral – hunger strikes and physical harm and extreme emotional dysregulation)?

So when you get 50 minutes like this, you’re damn straight the tears flow freely. Maybe it’s going to be ok. Maybe he’s going to come into his own. Maybe he’s going to learn to make friends. Maybe he’s going to know what it feels like to be a “typical” kid from time to time. Maybe there’ll be a day when watching him blend in won’t bring tears to my eyes. Maybe. But for today, I’ll be over here crying in my chai.