Spilling your guts on the internet feels weird. Spilling your guts on the internet, knowing your parents are reading it, makes me want to throw up.

People feel bad for me. People pray for me. People encourage me. People praise me. But I would venture to say that no one sees an autistic child and says “yeah, yeah, but what about the grandparents’ feelings?”

I suppose it’s a triaged thought process and people think kid, parents, and tap out there. There are not any podcasts, books, and support groups directed at grandparents. Almost, seems like a behind the scenes grunt kind of worker, who is never thought of.

I know what it feels like to be a parent to an autistic child. But I can’t imagine being a grandparent trying to figure out how to help my child and their child. Sounds, like double the feelings and problems.

I often feel bad for all of Max’s grandparents. My heart twinges when he doesn’t want to be hugged, he won’t call them by their titles, doesn’t want to sit with them, or even be left alone with them. I can’t imagine what it feels like to have days where your grandchild is avoiding you, like you’re the boogey man.

I worry my parents are getting the short end of the stick with grandchildren. Don’t get me wrong, max is the love of my life, but his life looks different. Max is their only grandchild. What if they never see him score the winning homerun, speak clearly, spend the night at their house, graduate high school, move out, and get married?

Let me be clear, none of Max’s relatives have ever even so much as thrown a disappointed look his way. I have to reckon that some of my conceptions about the way my parents think are true. My other conceptions are a probably, just a mix of projections, attempts at mind reading, and fears running wild.

My knee jerk reaction sometimes is still to protect my family from Max’s tantrums, lack of affection, and disinterest in communication. Like many, I live my life trying to shield my family from painful moments. Unfortunately, I am a lousy actor, and my parents always see through my facades.

Olympic-level mental gymnastics are needed some days to reframe my thoughts into something positive or even bearable. Other days, my mind is at peace, and all is well with my soul. Those are the days that I realize what my parents do get to experience: seeing him running full speed from room to room, hysterically laughing while being tickled or chased, digging in the dirt, flapping his arms and doing the worm to show his excitement, pushing his head up to your mouth so you can kiss it, being dragged around by the hand to communicate what he needs your help with, watching the funny scenes of Curious George, and cutting up ice cream sandwiches while Max is impatiently doing the sign for please.

There is beauty in autism. It’s hard to see and it’s not a superpower or whatever weird narrative some people are shilling but there is beauty. The beauty can look like him finding joy in something most wouldn’t appreciate, saying a new word and recognizing we understand him, or finally agreeing to taste a new food and loving it.

Giving up on the facades of attempting to seem happy when I’m not, not exhausted when I’ve had three hours of sleep, or brave when I am scared is so freeing and restorative. Uncomfortable vulnerability and confiding in my parents renews my strength, encourages my spirit, and helps me realize that things aren’t always as heavy as they seem.

They love me, they love Max, and they don’t need my protection.

In the long run, Max will be watching birds with my mom and yelling at the dawgs with my dad.