I know that what I write about my mother is hard to read. I understand the desire for a silver lining or upbeat message to offset the negatives in my stories of having a mother on the autism spectrum. I keep looking for those miracles too.
So here are some positive stories about my mother.
One summer morning when her four children were very young (I can’t have been more than 5), she woke us up before dawn and ushered us to the backyard to see the sunrise. I still remember that morning. We sat quietly on the patio, listening in the dark to the birds narrating their search for breakfast. We ran to the front porch when we heard the milk man arrive to fill the metal box with glass milk bottles. We had never seen him before and had never thought about the man or the journey of our milk. We sat back down as the light colored the sky and the neighborhood began to issue the cadence of their awakening.
My mother wanted her children to share her interests. She read us the books she’d loved as a child and wanted us to love them too. She taught the first three of us to play bridge when we were in grade school and sometimes called us to the dining room table to play with her.
She volunteered to be the librarian for our grade school when they started a library. My sister and I would sit with her on her white bedspread covered with lists of books on long sheets of paper, discussing which books she should buy for the school. She let us feel that she respected our opinions.
She – and my father too – made sure we did not absorb the racist messages that were pervasive in the Southern city where we grew up. We heard from our parents that racism was wrong and that people should not be judged by skin color. We learned that we could hold a minority view and be proud to express it.
My mother cannot help her lack of empathy and her obsession with her stresses and needs. I know the world is a challenge for her, and I appreciate that the mysteries that confront her daily have not made her mean.
Copyright 2015 by Sarah Meyer Noel