As I walked out the door of my triplets’ bedroom, my daughter, who I call “Sunshine,” did her typical end-of-the-day statements.

Sunshine: “Goodnight, Mommy”
Me: “Goodnight”
Sunshine: “Happy Dream”
Me: “Happy Dream”

Sunshine repeats these closing statements again and again as you walk out the door. We think it’s partially because she has to have the last word in everything. It’s a ritual she began a few months ago. And, every night I still hold my breath, waiting and hoping.

You see, once, out of the blue, as I was saying good night and only expecting a response back from Sunshine, I heard a second “Happy Dream” from my other daughter, who I call “Princess.” My mostly nonverbal child was wishing me a happy night just like her sister. Of course, I rushed back into the room, kissed Princess all over again and insisted she too have a happy dream of her own.

It seems a small event, and yet, to any mother of a child with speech or milestone delays, a moment like that makes your throat catch and brings tears to your eyes. It’s not just the moment in itself, it’s the uncertainty of whether the moment will repeat itself at all or with any regularity. It’s a moment you simply may not get again. It’s a moment to treasure.

Every school day I stand by the bus as Princess and my third, “Angel,” get buckled into their seats. I wait and I wave. When Grandma is there she watches me and says something like, “Do they see you?” or “I don’t think they care about waving today” and I never answer those statements. I wave goodbye every day until the bus turns left, and they can’t see me waving.

Have my two autistic daughters ever waved back? No, not yet, but I still keep waving, because I’m Mom, and that’s what moms do. Because one day, my girls will wave back; one day, “bye-bye” will be part of their social world. Or, because one day there will be another moment, like when Angel looked directly into my eyes with recognition and pushed her tiny hand against the bus window as I waved. She kept her hand on the window until the bus turned left and I couldn’t see her anymore. So, yes, I wave. I wave every day.

Today’s post is my gift to all mothers of children with milestone delays or delayed development. We strive every day to teach our children, to presume competence, to hold our expectations high enough, to embrace our child’s differences and yet carefully recognize the fact that it could take up to 2,000 repetitions for our child with special needs to learn something that a typical child will likely learn in 200 repetitions. We balance expectations every day — not too low, not too high and realize that in addition to being Mom, we get to play therapist to our special children. Sometimes there are those days when we’d give almost anything to just be a parent, a simple, run-of-the-mill parent with “typical” expectations. Then without warning, we get a moment. A “Happy Dream” moment, a “wave bye-bye” moment, and all of a sudden nothing else matters but that moment. That moment when you absolutely, positively know how lucky you are to have this special child who shows you what life and love and joy really are.

This post originally appeared on The Tripped Up Life.

My youngest son sat in a seat on the crowded Greyhound bus. We were traveling as a group of three, two of us found seats together while he sat alone with a stranger. I kept asking if he wanted to sit with his brother. He stared at me, not speaking.

As we traveled, I asked if he was hungry; he gave an almost invisible shake of his head. I asked if he needed anything; he looked at me and shrugged.

Everyone stared, and I could hear the odd whispers. He should at least answer, they claimed. Kids these days, they mumbled.

I know more than they do. He’s uncomfortable in crowds, nervous about the trip, handling things well. He sat quietly the whole way and barely saying a word.

Then…

We were waiting for our next bus, a transfer in Dallas, when a gentleman asked for our attention and admitted he was humbling himself before the crowd. He needed $18 to make it home for Christmas. He understood we were all struggling, but could we spare some change? A dollar?

As I reached for my dollar, my youngest son pulled out the money he’s been saving for weeks — money for snacks on the trip and gifts for his brothers when we reached California.

Quietly he gave the gentleman $20. He got him home for Christmas.

One of the whispering women from the previous bus saw the sneaky transaction and came over to hug him. She said to me,”You are raising a wonderful son, Mamma. He was so quiet on the other bus, I didn’t know…”

We wished each other a very Merry Christmas and boarded our separate buses.

Sometimes “polite” is overrated.

This post originally appeared on Autism Answers With Tsara Shelton.

There’s a disturbing trend happening among a handful of parents who are raising children with special needs, developmental delays, medical needs, trauma, etc. — the lashing out on those raising children without these extra labels.

I’ve read words from obviously hurting mothers that express hatred toward any mother of a typically developing child who dares to share the joys of parenting… or worse, who dares to complain about how hard being a mom can be.

I get it. I really do. It’s hard work being the mom of children with special needs. Some days go just fine, but other days I long for normal. It can be frustrating to hear a mom complain that she can’t get her picky son to eat his broccoli when I worked for months, literally, to get my son to eat anything other than oatmeal. It can sting for a moment when a friend shares a funny story her child told her or something sweet he may have come running to tell her, when I’m longing to hear what my son thinks and feels… longing for even just one small sentence.

But, those are my issues to work out in my own heart. Just because things can be hard in my home doesn’t negate the struggles my friends go through. Special needs or not, parenting is hard work. Just because my hard is different from your hard doesn’t give me the right to silence you or belittle your experience. No, you may not know what I go through on a daily basis. It may be difficult to imagine some of our emotions and struggles… but that’s not your fault. It’s not a fault at all.

So please, please keep bragging about your children. If I can’t find joy in your joy, then I’m not being a true friend. To feel anger because something good happened to you that hasn’t happened to me is immature at best, but really it’s a complete lack of love.

We need to love and support one another, not just those who walk a similar path to our own. If you’re tired and frustrated because your little one has a cold and has been extra cranky, it’s OK to share that and ask for support. Don’t feel awkward about saying that to me, knowing that we’re in post-surgery recovery mode and having a rough go of it. I mean that. If I’m a friend, if I’m being a loving and supportive person, then it won’t make me roll my eyes and utter, “If she only knew how bad it could be…”

We can’t measure the level of celebrating or grieving that our peers experience, compare it to our own level and make a judgement call on whether or not the celebrating or grieving is acceptable and/or equal to our own. We simply need to enter into their world, grab every ounce of compassion and empathy that we can muster and be a friend.

Our job, as parents of children with special needs, is not to make others feel guilty and constantly remind them how good they have it. Our job is to love our children (and yours!), support and advocate for them and to be a good friend. Your job, as parents of typically developing children, is not to hide your struggles and joys. Your job is to love your children (and ours!), support and advocate for them and to be a good friend.

We who may feel like we may have a steeper path to climb in this parenting journey shouldn’t just shut our mouths, grit our teeth and make the journey alone. No, it’s good to share the heartaches and struggles… but we must do simply that and not tear down or silence others in the process.

Can we all just agree that, at times, motherhood is hard for everyone? And truth be told, I don’t think for one second my friends of typically developing children have it better or easier than I do. Because I have the two most beautiful and amazing children on the planet. I have more than enough to celebrate!

This post originally appeared on LaurenCasper.com.