Finding balance: Worry and Hope

I worry. I worry every single day, about every aspect of my life, and the lives of my family. I worry about normal stuff, and I worry about autism stuff.

I worry about the boys' aggression, towards each other and everyone else. I worry about being a good enough mother. I worry about loving them enough, about showing them that I love them, when they're seemingly uninterested in anything to do with me, or anyone, for that matter. I worry about how much TV they watch, and how many hours of sleep they get.

I worry about our finances. Was it really the right choice to quit my job, the one with a steady paycheck, and stay home to take care of my family? I especially worry since the boys' dad was let go for taking time off to deal with family stuff.

I worry about my sons' futures, I worry what tomorrow will bring. I worry about how the world will accept my children, in all their unique glory, because they're not broken, they're just wired differently.

I've been using both Mac and PC my whole life, I know those operating systems like I know my own heartbeat. The boys are closer to Linux – which I've only heard about. I'm excellent at navigating new technologies, though, so maybe it's unfair to compare my boys to an operating system, because they're much more complicated to me than that.

I worry that no one else is ever going to be bothered to learn with us, though. I remember growing up and hearing the derogatory things my family said about many of its own members, the “R-word” was commonplace, especially in relation to my uncle. If my grandparents said those things about their own son, what chance do my boys have at being loved and accepted?

I grew up with family dinners on Sunday, we gathered – most of my great-grandmother's 13 children and their families – nearly every weekend, and certainly every holiday. My great-grandmother was the glue that held us together, and when she passed away we drifted. I miss those times, though, that closeness that we shared.

And I'm afraid my kids aren't ever going to get to know that. I worry that their cousins, their aunts and uncles, are not going to accept them for who they are, that they'll be pushed to the backs of peoples' minds because they're different.

I worry that my family, of all people, will judge them harshly, as they've already shown they can. I mourn for the childhood that my boys won't have, but I'm hopeful, at the same time. My childhood was tumultuous, it was difficult, but I do still have many happy memories.

My favorite memories, the ones that I believe are actually my memories and not stories I've heard, revolve around time with my cousins and the rest of our family. Playing dolls together, going to the park, watching movies and having sleepovers – those are the happy pieces of my childhood, the pieces I carry with me. I don't feel my boys will ever have that – partially because my family has drifted apart, but also because they're different – not less, just different – and I don't know that my family can accept that in a positive, healthy manner.

I won't subject my children to the things my uncle, who has had an intellectual disability his whole life, was taught was acceptable behavior by people who were supposed to love him unconditionally.

I don't recall ever using derogatory terms when it came to my uncle, or any other special needs person in my life. That's not to say that I didn't, because kids can be cruel. But I feel as if I've been more accepting of different than some members of my family have been, and that's something I can say going as far back as I can remember.

I was always an accepting, loving child. I was full of love for everyone, I was entirely too trusting, too willing to sacrifice myself for those around me. I hope, as much as I worry, that my boys got a little piece of that from me.

I worry, and I hope. I have faith that things will be just fine – I've made it this far, with this many obstacles in my way, I know I can do this, and I know I can help my sons navigate those same choppy waters. And I know this because I know how much I love them, and I know (now) how much my mom has loved me my whole life. If she can do this, with everything she has faced, I can, too.

I have hope, despite how bleak things seem now, with autism taking over nearly every aspect of our lives, because in the end, all that matters is that I love my boys, and that I give it my all. I've been doing that my whole life, for people who didn't necessarily reciprocate or even deserve it – if I can do that for people who have negatively impacted my life, still have love and hope for them, then I can certainly do this for my children.

I have hope that one day they're going to make friends who will love them for who they are, while at the same time I worry that they'll encounter bullies because of their differences.

I have hope that they'll grow up and be able to do whatever it is they want to do – because I did, kind of. Having children was never in the cards, but it was okay because I'd already done many of the things I wanted to do, and I knew I could still do more, even with a baby (or two, as we would find out at my first ultrasound).

I have hope that one day, my boys will find someone who loves them for them, who accepts exactly who they are and doesn't want to change them. I have hope that my boys are the future of a family that has been broken, beaten down by its own demons – they're a fresh start, a whole new generation that can live more freely than I could as a child, even though the evils of the world are still in play.

I have hope that as much of a burden as this autism stuff is, that it's also a blessing, because my boys are the most forgiving, unconditionally loving people I've ever had the honor of meeting. I can yell at them, smack their tushies and put them in timeout, and they're still going to get a giant grin and give me a hug when I come back from my own timeout. My boys are lovers, even with their aggressive behaviors – which are probably more about their inability to communicate and their frustrations with each other than anything else.

I have hope that one day, I'll hear them call me mommy, I'll hear them say “I love you.” I hope that their father and I can do better than our parents, not that they did a horrible job, but more that we can learn from their mistakes and move forward.

So while I do worry, nearly constantly, I also hope. Life is all about balance – and while I have horrible physical balance due to a chiari malformation (herniating cerebellum), I'm hopeful that we can find that balance, given time and patience to do so.