Supermom

I have an alter-ego. Her name is Supermom.

Supermom wears makeup, which she compulsively checks in the car mirror because any imperfections in her mask might let her real self show. She dresses nicely. Maybe a little bit too nicely for such mundane occasions as grocery shopping and driving her child to therapy. The clothes are from thrift stores and from relatives who didn’t want them anymore, but you’d have to look closely to see the holes.

Supermom might be tired from getting up at 2:30 AM, but she has her shit together. She keeps detailed medical records and educational records. She makes to-do lists. She’s on time to IEP meetings and parent conferences. Usually. She schedules appointments and keeps them.

Supermom is comfortable with social interaction. Mostly. If she’s not, it’s just because she got up at 2:30 AM and she’s really tired …. It’s definitely not because she’s autistic or struggling with paranoia.

Supermom is mentally stable and does not need medication in order to function in day-to-day life.

Supermom does not have any weird political opinions.

Supermom is an advocate. She argues with doctors. She fires therapists. She files formal complaints. She keeps records and paper trails.

Supermom is involved in all of her kid’s therapies. She also implements the therapies at home on a daily basis, due to her endless amounts of energy and patience and lack of personal needs. She makes visual supports and uses them consistently.

When Supermom comes home, she wipes off her war paint, and there’s just me.

I laugh, I cry, I make terrible jokes, I feel overwhelmed, I struggle to keep my eyes open, I get mad, I yell, I apologize, I hug my son, I make silly faces, I stomp like a dinosaur. I put on a TV show and let him eat 3 boxes of yogurt raisins so that I can sit on the couch playing word games online. I rock back and forth and flap my hands. I take my meds. I grapple with self-doubt. I get worked up about politics. I slack off on therapy strategies. And I really do get up at 2:30 AM to give breathing medications and comfort and love.

I’m not sure how many people my Supermom persona actually fools – maybe no one. But I’m aware that I’m expected to try. At least try to pretend to be superhuman. And how my son is treated, the services and supports and medical care he gets, depends on my trying.

So I do. You’re welcome.

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