I don’t think people really understand what life looks like behind closed doors when you’re raising a non-verbal autistic child.
Tonight, I’m going to pull back that curtain.
Paxton recently started ABA therapy. I know there’s a lot of debate about it. But for us, it has been an absolute blessing. My boy is changing right before my eyes. He’s sleeping better (except for weekends, which still kick our ass), and he’s gaining confidence in ways I never thought possible.
He’s non-verbal. Yet, he’s figuring out how to be independent. The other night, he went into the bathroom, set up his phone and tablet just how he likes, undressed himself, climbed into the tub, and turned the water on.
I know how dangerous that is. Drowning is the number one cause of death for autistic children. That’s why his dad and I don’t take our eyes off him for a second. But in that moment, watching him problem-solve… it was terrifying and beautiful all at once.
Last week, my 15-year-old son asked me a question. It broke me:
“Mom, who will take care of Paxton if something happens to you and Josh?”
I didn’t have an answer. I’ve spent so long surviving in the now that I haven’t allowed myself to think that far ahead. I told him, “I don’t know, buddy.”
He said, “Well, I do. He’s not going to a home. I’ll take care of him.”
That moment shattered my heart and filled it with pride at the same damn time.
Some days, I grieve the life I thought we’d have. Other days, I’m proud of the life we’re building — even if it looks nothing like I imagined.
We don’t go to parties. We don’t attend family events. Not because we don’t want to. Because the world doesn’t know how to treat kids who are “different.” And I’m not the type of mom to sit quietly while my child is mistreated. Especially Paxton. He can’t defend himself. But I damn sure can.
I try to be graceful. I try to be patient. But people’s ignorance and heartlessness will knock the grace right out of you some days.
But there are moments — moments that make it all worth it.
My daughter recently moved back home. When we’re all in the same room, Paxton pulls us into a circle. He sits in the middle and just smiles. That’s his happy place. Having his family — his whole world — right there with him.
It’s only 8:50 on a Saturday night and this mamma is completely drained. This tired isn’t just physical. It’s emotional, mental, and soul-deep.
But I’ll never stop showing up for him.
Thank you to those who take time to read these posts. It means more than you know.
Livingwithwhit 