All has gone quiet on the western front. This week has been drama-free. My oldest son is happy. He’s calm. He’s relaxed. So why am I not?

Perhaps it’s because this journey of parenting a child with autism is rather like riding a roller coaster. At this point we are on the up, but who knows what will happen when we turn that corner. It may be a huge and terrifying dip.

When the big lad was first diagnosed, a doctor told me not to look too far ahead and focus on what’s happening now. I listened to that advice, and looking back, nothing has worked out as I expected. It’s actually better than I ever imagined. The big lad has exceeded all of the doctor’s expectations, academically and socially.

I was right to ignore the doctor’s advice. I was right to believe he would make it in regular school. I was right that he could be bilingual. I was right to have high expectations. I only wish somebody had told me that then, but if they had, I probably wouldn’t have believed them.

When the big lad was diagnosed, several friends and colleagues shared Emily Perl Kingsley’s essay “Welcome to Holland” with me. She wrote this “to describe the experience of raising a child with a disability” and to help people “imagine how it would feel.”

Ironically, most people who sent this to me didn’t have children with special needs. I think it was a well-meaning attempt to empathize with how I was feeling, and perhaps they felt it had added significance since I live in Holland.

However, I was never comfortable with the hint of disappointment I believe is implied in Kingsley’s essay. I agree with Mama Dullock’s passionately written post at “Autism, or Something Like It.” It’s more about our expectations of parenthood, and it’s up to us to choose what we make of our experiences. I have tried to put into words what my experience of parenting a child with autism is like:

A Day Out at a Theme Park

You may have planned your trip in advance, or it could be a surprise day out. But either way, you eagerly anticipate the adventure you’re about to embark on.

Everybody rushes towards the popular rides, and the lines are enormous. Some people have fast passes and rush past you with smiling faces. As they embark, they enthusiastically tell you how great it was and dash off to the next roller coaster, leaving you behind.

You have a choice: keep waiting in line patiently, quickly follow the others or go to a shorter line.

Those of you who decide to wait will finally make it onto the main ride. It took a lot of patience and determination, but nevertheless, the experience was fantastic. But there’s also a nagging feeling that while waiting you may have missed out on something.

Those of you who followed the crowd made it onto some rides but missed others. And those of you who left the line went your own way, found some great new rides and had fun exploring and discovering new things. But some were left wondering what the big rides were really like.

At the end of the day, everyone left through the same exit, just at different times. Did you enjoy the day out? Well, that was up to you.

It hasn’t been a smooth ride. At times, it has been scary, and although I love roller coasters (I thrive on the adrenaline rush that I get from them), it is the fear of letting go and losing control that terrifies me. And permanently riding a roller coaster can be exhausting. For the control freak in me, the uncertainty of what’s around the next corner can be crippling.

However, becoming a parent doesn’t come with guarantees, and we need to accept our children for who they are and love them unconditionally. We need to trust that in the end we will all arrive at the place we need to be. One thing is for certain, I am going to make damn sure I enjoy the ride!

We all complain sometimes, and life comes up and bites us on the a**. But it bites us all, in different ways and at different times. Our experiences are unique, and it is how we choose to respond to them that defines us.

Time to let go, face the fear and embrace the unexpected!

Follow this journey on Diary of an Imperfect Mum.

The Mighty is asking the following: What’s one thing people might not know about your experience with disability and/or disease, and what would you say to teach them? If you’d like to participate, please send a blog post to [email protected] Please include a photo for the piece, a photo of yourself and 1-2 sentence bio. Check out our Submit a Story page for more about our submission guidelines.

Lead photo source: Thinkstock Images


We know autism is infinitely different between individuals and families. However, there are commonalities that we may share, which is the basis behind this list. The term “rule” is meant very loosely, as in there really aren’t any! I live this on a daily basis with my four kids: 11-year-old identical twin boys, an 8-year-old daughter and a 13-year-old daughter.

1. The first rule of autism is to talk about autism.

I’ve been talking about it for nine years now and don’t plan to stop.

Source: "Doctor Who"
Source: “Doctor Who”

2. Never run out of your child’s favorite food.

If you ever have, you know why this is important. You might find yourself heading to the store at an inopportune time in an attempt to quell a meltdown that ensued after the oversight was discovered.

Source: "Sherlock"
Source: “Sherlock”

3. Don’t switch to decaf coffee or run out of coffee.

Why? Because we are tired! For those who don’t consume caffeine, how do you not?

Source: "Fast Times at Ridgemont High"
Source: “Fast Times at Ridgemont High”

4. Pants are sometimes optional.

Fortunately, my kids were minimal in their disregard to pants. In fact, one of my twins used to get really upset if his brother wasn’t wearing a shirt. I know many households can relate to Wayne’s “no pants” revolution.

Source: "Wayne’s World"
Source: “Wayne’s World”

5. Expect the unexpected when driving.

Driving with my kids is always entertaining. I have learned to expect the unexpected such as spilled drinks, items being thrown, bickering. I really want the newer Toyota Sienna minivan that has the microphone so you can yell at the backseat passengers. That would be awesome. (Morgan Freeman? Well, maybe it would lend itself to actual adult conversation.)

Source: "Bruce Almighty"
Source: “Bruce Almighty”

6. Don’t let anyone underestimate your child’s intelligence.

On a more serious note, never let anyone question your child’s intelligence. Standardized testing isn’t a true reflection of what they know. One of my son’s teachers said to me last year, “If I didn’t have R in class, I would have never known how smart he was.” This teacher took the time to see past his defiant behavior about writing and allowed him to type his answers. It was excellent.

Source: "Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure"
Source: “Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure”

7. Don’t believe everything you read about autism.

I think the fragmented splinter studies that are published weekly don’t take into account the big picture. The look on The Hoff’s face says it all.

Source: David Hasselhoff
Source: David Hasselhoff

8. Don’t forget the iPad or the charger.

I think we all know what happens if you do.

Source: "Parks and Recreation"
Source: “Parks and Recreation”

9. Don’t be afraid to question the medical professionals.

For the first year and a half, I was repeatedly told that my twins delayed milestones were because they were twins, they were preemies or they were boys. I knew something was amiss, but I listened to the doctor’s excuses. I don’t hesitate to question them now. On a side note, look how young Nick Nolte was! 

Source: "Emergency!"
Source: “Emergency!”

10. You can’t just “get” a babysitter

And if you do find one, you may do anything to have them come back!

Source: "Junior"
Source: “Junior”

Hopefully, you were able to relate to some of these.

Follow this journey on Autism Odysseys

The Mighty is asking the following: Create a list-style story of your choice in regards to disability, disease or illness. It can be lighthearted and funny or more serious — whatever inspires you. Be sure to include at least one intro paragraph for your list. If you’d like to participate, please send a blog post to [email protected] Please include a photo for the piece, a photo of yourself and 1-2 sentence bio. Check out our Share Your Story page for more about our submission guidelines.

I’m about to write some sage stuff here, y’all. Are you ready?

Here are the things I know for sure about raising a kid with autism.










10. Keep scrolling.










20. Keep going.






26. I know for sure my son is awesome. I know for sure my son is worth it. I know for sure my son makes me happy, even though he is equally maddening. I know for sure there is not one thing in this world that could ever make me stop loving him. I know for sure that whatever this life throws at him, he’s eventually going to knock it out of the ballpark.

I could write volumes about what I know for sure about raising kids with autism.

Follow this journey on Autism in Our House.

The Mighty is asking the following: Create a list-style story of your choice in regards to disability, disease or illness. It can be lighthearted and funny or more serious — whatever inspires you. Be sure to include at least one intro paragraph for your list. If you’d like to participate, please send a blog post to [email protected] Please include a photo for the piece, a photo of yourself and 1-2 sentence bio. Check out our Submit a Story page for more about our submission guidelines.

Dear “Santa Jay,”

I walked into your hardware store on December 5, 2014, not as a consumer, but as a mom. A mom who has a child with autism. I was no stranger to what I was about to do, as I have done it with other businesses more times than I can count. I was fully prepared for the “odd” look I assumed I was about to get by asking questions like, “Excuse me, but do you have anything that resembles a panel horn?” (My 4-year-old taught me that it’s the control box that controls the fire alarms in large buildings) and “Do you have any boxes with pictures of microwaves on them?” Yes, I know that bewildered head tilt, eyebrow raise and wide-eyed look all too well. It’s the look of confusion, surprise and sometimes judgment of my ability as a parent.

Brittany Miller.2

I’m sorry to say that as you greeted me with a “Can I help you with anything today, ma’am?” I had already judged you and your reaction falsely. I spouted off my normal speech. “Yes, I know this is going to sound like an odd question, but do you have any keys that have been miscut that I can buy from you? My 4-year-old has autism, and he is obsessed with keys.” I waited for your eyebrows to raise and your eyes to widen as you soaked in my question, but you didn’t give me a funny look or even attempt to raise an eyebrow. Instead, what you said to me is something I will never forget. Do you remember what you said to me? I do. I remember it word for word.

“That’s actually not a weird question at all. I get one or two parents a year who ask for those.”

What you said may not sound like much, but to a mom who often feels lonely, isolated, judged and living in a world others don’t understand, your words really translated to this: You are not alone.

And in that one moment, on the date of December 5, 2014, and in that one single second, I didn’t feel like I was.

Your response gave me much more than happiness. It gave me hope, it showed me compassion and it demonstrated acceptance for my child and the world he is living in. Do you remember what you did next?

You then led me to a bucket filled to the brim with miscut keys, and you even helped me pick out some you thought my son would like while telling me, “Take as many as you want, free of charge, and come back anytime for more.”

Brittany Miller.4-001

This leads us to now, more than a year later, and your words have still helped me get through some of my hardest days. My son is still obsessed with keys, and he carries them everywhere he goes. He even has “key breaks” at school as a reward for good behavior. Those keys that you so graciously offered to me for my child have become his biggest and best calming mechanism thus far.

Over the past year, I have brought my son into your place of employment several times to pick out new keys to add to his obsession. Sometimes we see you, and sometimes we don’t. But just recently I stopped by to get keys from “Santa,” and I had the pleasure of speaking to you again. You asked me, “How is the little guy doing?” and once again, your compassion brought me to the verge of tears.

So I want to say thank you “Santa Jay” for not just for giving me and my child the material object we were seeking, but for reminding me I am not alone. That we are not alone on our autism journey. My son’s obsession with keys may fade over time, but I can promise you that the words you spoke to me never will.


One of many mothers who has a child with autism

The Mighty is asking the following: Write a letter to a stranger or someone you don’t know well who showed you incredible love during the holiday season. If you’d like to participate, please send a blog post to [email protected] Please include a photo for the piece, a photo of yourself and 1-2 sentence bio. Check out our Submit a Story page for more about our submission guidelines.

As the parent of a teenager learning to drive, I was an utter failure. When my daughter, Natalie, took the wheel, I was such a wreck that it’s a wonder she learned to drive at all.

Several months after getting her license, she offered to take her brother, Daniel, for ice cream. While she’d proven to be a fine driver, I couldn’t help watching as she backed down the driveway, shouting advice and directions, gesturing like a traffic cop as she veered toward our neighbor’s lawn.

“You’re not helping!” Natalie yelled out the driver’s window as she inched toward the street.

“Be careful!” I cried redundantly.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah!” she yelled back, waving me off.

“Both hands on the wheel!” I bellowed in reply. “I mean it now!”

Kristen Scott.3-001

As she shifted from reverse into drive, I observed Daniel in the passenger seat, eyes scrunched tight and hands over his ears, desperate, no doubt, to block the din of our banter. But as I teased Natalie later, it was as though he couldn’t bear to watch as he placed his life in his sister’s hands.

Eighteen months later, our mood was less jovial as we moved Daniel to a residential school in another state, an hour and a half from home. He was 15 years old. Seven years ago today, I let go of my son, placing his welfare in the hands of people I barely knew, relying on faith that we were doing the right thing for our cherished, special child. It was the most painful thing I’ve ever done.

I’d had several months to prepare and accept that he could no longer be educated through conventional special ed channels or safely cared for at home. The school we’d chosen was highly regarded, known for its success with students with behavioral issues. We toured and met the staff, asking every question we could think of. I talked to friends whose own son resided at the school, comforted by their positive experience. We were as confident as we could be that we were making the best decision possible under difficult and heartbreaking circumstances.

Yet there was no real way to prepare Daniel for the life change ahead, to explain our actions had his best interest at heart and that we’d done everything we could and it was still not enough. Words could not convey to our nonverbal, autistic child our profound love as we left him in an unfamiliar place and his care now in the hands of others. My dark fear that he’d believe we’d abandoned him almost broke me as I clung to the fragments of my tattered, trembling faith.

After Daniel’s move, I rarely practiced that faith, traveling to Wisconsin most Sunday mornings to visit him. In truth, I was glad for the excuse to leave the church behind. My parents were both gone by then, their memories filling the space they helped build before I was born and the church of my childhood imbued with more sorrow than comfort, awash in reminders of all that was lost too soon. The old hymns and liturgies were haunting in their constancy — vestiges of what I once believed invulnerable.

I attended church a few weeks ago, however, and met the new pastor for the first time.

“They say ‘America’s Got Talent,’ but I beg to differ,” she joked in her sermon, noting that reality TV rarely depicts a truly useful skill, a precious gift or a worthwhile endeavor.

“The high school teacher who makes algebra come alive — that’s talent,” she continued. “The musician who brings tears to your eyes. The parent whose children know they are loved.”

I missed much of what came next. I was suddenly back seven years to the third night after we’d left Daniel in Wisconsin.

We’d spoken every day to his floor manager, Kip, whom Daniel had taken to immediately. So far he’d adapted remarkably, Kip told us, better than most new residents. We’d been advised not to visit for 30 days, but Daniel was adjusting so well that Kip thought we may be able to come sooner, possibly for Christmas.

My voice broke with relief and gratitude as I thanked him.

Kristen Scott.2-001

“Daniel is going to be fine,” Kip assured me. “He is secure in a way I don’t see very often. This is a child who knows that he is loved.”

I doubt Kip will ever understand how much those words meant to me and that they remain the most meaningful thing I’ve ever been told.

For all the ways I felt we’d failed him, we had given Daniel that one gift.

He knew he was loved. He knew we would come for him again.

It’s been a turbulent few years with my son. I wonder sometimes if he still knows the depth of my love for him, and how I treasure him despite the distance that separates us; if he remembers the love I could once demonstrate each day, waking him in the morning and seeing him to bed at night. I wonder what my weekly visits evoke in him. Are they like the old liturgies of my childhood, stirring memories of faith once held without question with the melodies now echoing both loss and promise?

Does he know me, still? Does he remember? Have the seven years he’s been gone blurred his sense of me, or do I remain one thing he knows to be true, to be constant, no matter what? He asks for me, but what is he seeking now? Does the memory of my love wound in my absence, or is it one true gift that distance cannot diminish?

I don’t know the answers for sure. But I keep faith that he does know, that he has always known, that I am with him and that he will always, always be loved.

Follow this journey on Good Marching: Experiences in Autism and the Rest of Life.

The Mighty is asking the following: What’s one thing people might not know about your experience with disability and/or disease, and what would you say to teach them? If you’d like to participate, please send a blog post to [email protected] Please include a photo for the piece, a photo of yourself and 1-2 sentence bio. Check out our Share Your Story page for more about our submission guidelines.

Tori Medlyn had a surprise guest at her sweet 16 birthday party — Elmo!

The beloved puppet made a special video appearance for Tori, who has autism and is considered nonverbal although she can say a few words, according to Little Things. Her mother, Lisa Medlyn says Tori loves to watch “Sesame Street” videos online.

Medlyn reached out to the PBS show in hopes that the company would send her daughter a birthday card, but what she got was much better.

For Tori’s birthday on November 28, “Sesame Street” sent her a personalized birthday video featuring none other than Elmo himself. Elmo spoke about some of Tori’s favorite things, like pizza, held up a photo of her and sang a song.

See Tori’s special birthday video below:

The birthday girl got to watch the video with her friends and family.

See Tori’s reaction to the special surprise in the video below: 

The company also sent Tori a bag with “Sesame Street” paraphernalia including books, cups and other toys.

“The reason I emailed them is there are so many missed opportunities when you have a kid with special needs,” Medlyn told, a lifestyle and parenting site. “So it was really awesome because it was one of those times in our life that we all had something to look forward to… This is one thing that got to be just for her.”

Tori’s birthday present came just after “Sesame Street” launched its autism initiative “Sesame Street and Autism: See Amazing in All Children,” which introduced a character with autism named Julia.

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