I don’t think I would read my blog. I wouldn’t want to feel sad about something I couldn’t fix. I wouldn’t want to worry about someone else’s problems when I had my own.

This post is meant to be all that is right instead of all that is wrong. I hope the title encouraged you to open this one knowing it won’t spark sadness, fear, or restlessness. Let me tell you about the upside of autism without selling you the narrative of it being a superpower or whatever cringe post is going around on Facebook.

I stared at the blinking cursor on this page for 30 minutes trying to come up with a slew of words that might scrape the surface of encapsulating Max.

Max does the worm. He does it everyday and does it energetically, smiley, and passionately. Max does everything passionately in a world that struggles with apathy and lack of drive. He will do the worm in his crib, in the middle of the street, in front of an exhibit at the zoo, or at the doctor’s office. What a joyous gift it is to be able to give into any whimsical urge that flows through you.

Max gets the zoomies more than any golden retriever I have seen at a dog park. I guess the term his therapists use is ‘motor looping,’ but semantics are lost on me in the world of autism. He runs as fast as he can and makes this face like he just got caught with his hand in the cookie jar. His preferred area for zoomies is the road (despite my best attempts to dissuade him) or the yard. He has calloused soles from running on the pavement and soil-stained hands from digging in the dirt. Dirty hands and well-used feet exude the freedom most of us yearn for.

Max knows what a Musk ox is. Do you? Max has this funny quirk where he doesn’t fool with words that are helpful to mom and dad. Max prefers to invests all of his time into meaningful things like making his mouth cooperate into naming every species of animal. To be honest, half the time it feels like I am trying to decipher what a drunk person with a mouthful of marbles is saying. The other half of the time I feel like I am going to throw up with feelings. It sounds odd, but hear me out. The precious moments of understanding what your child is saying and your child understanding you understand them is almost sickeningly powerful. It’s a rush of joy, hope, and giddiness that makes my heart and stomach do some sort of olympic level gymnastic routine. Every single word he speaks refills my cup.

I am fairly certain Max could perfect a swan dive or a full nelson given the instructions once. He is the funniest mix of curiosity married to energy. Who hasn’t wondered if they could stick the landing of a jump from the back of the couch, or climb a wobbly looking tree, or step in the ant pile and make the perfect getaway while watching them come out? Max has what they would call low “risk awareness” even for a toddler. He has blind faith in us that we will protect him. Don’t get me wrong, it produces an ungodly amount of cortisol in me. But how cool is it to have someone have such confidence in you and to be the expected hero to swoop in and save the day? I wish I had as much faith in myself as Max has in me.

Here is my disclaimer: It’s so easy to get caught up in the bad moments of autism. Somedays resentment comes to me easier than gratitude. I want to fully and authentically acknowledge how hard and heavy it is to parent a child with autism.

Here is my rebuttal to my disclaimer: This sounds so cliche but Max is the best and I haven’t ever had a fleeting thought of wishing he wasn’t mine. I am so grateful to experience a child who finds joy in mundane things, has passion that can’t be taught, immune to the judgement of others, and more authentic than I have ever been and ever could be.

In the long run, it will be us laughing at the worms and waving bye to the planes.