We were late for school today. 

One minute behind the bell, actually. But late nonetheless. This sixty second delay meant that your dad wasn’t allowed to walk you to class. We were tardy, rules are rules, and that was that. But that isn’t your routine. You’re 4 1/2 and autistic, routines are your safety net. They are the way you cope with a confusing and inflexible world. 

We were late because you were having a hard time. You’re getting over a virus that had you in bed for a whole week. You were tired and you didn’t want to wake up. You were melting down through your whole morning routine. And it’s okay, it happens. We pushed through, together, and by the time you left for school you were smiling. Ready to start your day. We were going to be slightly late, but you were happy, and that’s all that mattered. 

And then they changed the routine. They moved one piece in the puzzle of your morning and the whole thing shifted out of perspective. You didn’t understand. You were confused. So, taking the hand of a teacher you don’t know, you cried the whole way to class. 

Your dad probably could have argued with the front office. He could have told them you’re only in pre-k, that you’re autistic, and that what seems like a small inconvenience and minor consequence to them is a huge deal to you. But, if there’s anything we’ve learned in the nearly 5 years since your birth it’s that the world doesn’t bend for kids who are different. The world doesn’t respond with kindness and compassion for kids who are having a harder time adjusting to life and it’s constant uncertainties. The world doesn’t wait. 

So he took a deep breath. He explained to you what was happening as best as he could. He told he loved you and it’s going to be okay. And he watched, helpless and hopeless as you were walked back to class in tears. After all of our work to make sure you’re day got off to a good start, the world shattered it with one simple moment of inflexibility. 

The irony is that they will say it’s you who is inflexible. That it’s you who needs to learn how to cope, how to wait, how to listen, how to be a good member of society by following all of it’s spoken and unspoken rules. They will say that you’re behind and you need to catch up, as fast as you can, so that you don’t get left in the dust. 

But we know differently. We know a secret that the rest of the world doesn’t seem to be in on. Or refuses to be. 

You’re not inflexible, you’re not behind, you’re just you. You do things on your own time and in your own way. You’re actually ahead of your class, already learning to read at 4, you know the alphabet backwards and forwards. You’re learning to write actual words, not just letters. You haven’t been able to speak for most of your life, but that doesn’t mean you don’t understand. 

You’re just you. 

You’re experiencing the world in a way only you can. And as much as I love to see your progress and I’m proud to see how hard you’re working to catch up. I’ve also learned the value in slowing down and experiencing the world with you, on your time. Of course there’s days I’d like to rush things along, days where I grow impatient, tired or feel helpless in helping you. But you’ve made me strong, you’ve made compassionate, you’ve made me see the world through a lens I never would have before. You’ve made me a mother. 

I wish I could capture that lens and share it with the world. To give everyone else a way to see life like you do. To see how much we need kids like you. To see how the systems and structures we have in place not only fail you, but often, hurt you. I want the world to see the beauty and value that you bring. And yet, I’m helpless here too. Because I, too, live in this world. And it won’t bend for me either. I find that the more I push against the doors the more resistance I encounter. But I will keep pushing on doors for you. I’ll keep pushing on doors so you don’t have to. 

Because while the world is busy rushing you to catch up, I’ll be here to hold the door open, so you can take your time. The world won’t for you. But I will.