Last First Day of School.  Words that make the faces of shiny new high school seniors beam with joy and anticipation…and make the worry-worn and weary faces of their mothers pucker with barely contained tears - commingled sorrow and pride. Today was that day for my youngest son – and for me. He is my baby, all 6’3” of him – in my mind and heart, still a hip-high Kindergartener walking into the school, slightly ahead of me – and then RUNNING into the waiting arms of a beloved Speech & Language Therapist, leaving Mommy to walk, solo, the remaining distance to his first classroom.  I found him there, the Traitor, already settled in a desk with bright, colorful things taped to the desktop to draw his attention.  I remember standing, not quite certain of what to do next…I hadn’t expected this; I hadn’t expected him to not need me that day - of all days. I needed him to need me.  Worry, sorrow, and pride fought for control of my emotions. A brief word with his wonderful teacher, aide, and SLT; a kiss & hug from my guy and I was on my way out – tears winning the war with my eyelids and dripping from my lashes, all hopes of a dignified, stalwart exit dashed as I hurried, head bent to hide my failed attempt to not cry, to the door and to my waiting Jeep. 

Fast forward – LITERALLY! We went through a time warp or something! – a dozen years later to today. Last First Day of School.  My hip-high baby is now a towering Gigantor, with a quick wit, amazing talent, and a sharp, intelligent mind who can match his Mom’s (no longer Mommy; I graduated to “Mom” somewhere along the way) sarcastic tongue lash for lash.  I drove him to school, asking questions along the way – “Do you have your pens?” “Do you have your house key?” “Is your phone charged?” “Do you know where your first class is?” “Are you sure this is where I need to drop you off?”  Each question answered in a tone increasingly frustrated until finally, “Mom. I’ve got this.” brought a halt to my questions. I can’t help it.  I needed him to need me, just one more time.   A quick air kiss, “Thanks, Mom. I love you.” and he was out the door, walking the confident, sure walk of the upperclassman toward the building to begin his Senior year.  I drove away, not daring to look over my shoulder, lest I embarrass him.

Oh, I know he needs me.  All boys need their Mom – no matter their age.  I know that there are lessons to be taught, corrections to be made, comfort to be offered, wisdom to be shared – my work isn’t done.  He will need me for a while yet – and then, when he no longer needs me, it is my prayer that he will want me to have a supporting role in his life…in the background, blended in to remain unobtrusive, cheering, encouraging, advising – coach, friend, Mom.  Ours is a relationship that is as unique, different, and wonderful as he is.  I think it always will be.  That makes me happy.

Tonight, on the eve of his Last Second Day of School, I finally told him the story of his diagnosis with autism. Oh, he knew of the diagnosis, but I’d never taken the time to tell him the story. I told him of the questions and concerns that led me to request a referral from his doctor. I told him of the initial diagnosis of a severe language delay, and ultimately, of the diagnosis of autism.  I told him of the school system’s request to send him to an autism classroom at another school in another district and how I had refused and fought for his placement in our home district, in a general education classroom, with an aide, because I REFUSED to just give in to autism. I refused to give up on him. I told him how proud I am of him and how far he has come; how I know there is nothing that he cannot accomplish, no dream he can’t reach because he is an overcomer. 

His eyes shone with tears. I asked him not to cry – his story is a happy one; it is a story of victory! He briefly excused himself to blow his nose, then he returned to my side to thank me for fighting for him.  For not giving up on him. I had mistaken his tears for sadness; they were tears of gratitude.

He thanked me.  My hero thanked me. 

Senior year.  Class of 2016.  8 months until graduation. 279 days.  I can do this. I’ll be okay.  We’ll both be okay. 

Run, Daniel, Run!  Hebrews 12:1.