I spent some time today outlining the ways autism can be a blessing in disguise. And I mean it. But, autism can also be extremely unfair, and I don’t want to pretend that those thing don’t exist.

It’s not fair the way people respond when they see a child with autism having a meltdown. It’s so easy, when you’re not in the trenches, to assume that said child is spoiled, or undisciplined, or simply a brat. It’s not fair that people stare, and say condescending things like, “Someone obviously needs a nap!” No, “someone” doesn’t. Maybe you do, though. “Someone” is overstimulated, or overwhelmed, or out of his comfort zone. Try to extend a little grace, and lessen up on the judgement, especially since it’s a situation about which you obviously know nothing!

It’s not fair the way parents, especially mothers, are blamed for their child having autism. Maybe if you hadn’t eaten that when you were pregnant… Maybe if you had been more loving… Maybe if you had never let him watch TV… Maybe if you hadn’t let him have those vaccinations… It’s not helpful. And none of those things have ever actually been proven. Again, less judgement and blaming, unless you want the stare of death from a tire, frustrated, overwhelmed mother.

It’s not fair that children with autism don’t quite “get it” socially, whether by their own choice (the loners), or because they’re excluded by their peers because of their difficulties. It’s not fair to see them by themselves on the playground, to know that they ate lunch alone, to see their struggles with making connections and friends.

It’s not fair that my child has to have a different education than his siblings do. This could be a public school vs. homseschool issue, as is the case in our family, or a private school vs. public school issue, or a specialized/residential school vs. public school issue. However it plays out, it’s not fair that not all children in a family can go to school together, because one of them requires special services/teachers/opportunities that are not available at the school that the majority attends.

It’s not fair to have a sibling with autism. No matter how much you love your autistic brother or sister, it can be a challenge to learn how to interact and play with him or her. Why does he get so upset when the littlest thing changes? Why does he get more attention? Why won’t he talk to me or play with me? It’s not easy to grow up next to somebody with so many idiosyncrasies.

It’s not fair to the person with autism, either. Probably most of all. Why should he be the one to be different? Why should he be the one to struggle to speak, to express himself, to engage others, to fit it. It’s not fair to realize that you’re the different one; that there’s something “wrong” with you. To know that everybody else is doing something different from you.

Autism isn’t fair. But, as the old saying goes, “life isn’t fair.” Sometimes it sucks, but it’s something a person, a family, a society, must learn to live with. Autism is on the rise, and until we figure out why, and how to prevent it, we must learn to look past “fair,” and learn how to deal with the struggles of everyday life.

I mentioned earlier today, that in some ways, Moose’s autism has been a blessing. It has taught us to celebrate things that otherwise might seem insignificant, to not take anything for granted. We have also experienced the tremendous joy that comes from seeing your child go from a four-year-old with almost no verbal ability to a seven-year-old who can have conversations, tell jokes, and let you know when he’s sick or hurt,  just like any other child can.

Today, I had his annual review at the school (the irony of the timing is not lost on me!). After, I was talking to his occupational therapist. She has worked with him since day one at the school, when he was barely three years old. As a matter of fact, she is the last person that is still working with him that has been with him from the start. Next year, she’ll see him very infrequently, because he’s come so far, he really doesn’t need OT anymore. She’ll basically just be a consultant to the teacher, and an extra pair of eyes to check in on how he’s doing periodically.

I’ve long known that he’s a favorite student of hers…who could blame her? Moose is, after all, very sweet and funny and charming. But she told me today, with tears in her eyes, that Moose will always be the one student who makes her years as a therapist worth it, because of how far he’s come, and how much he’s achieved.

I realized at that moment, that Moose’s autism has been, in a weird way, a blessing to her, as well. Without it, she wouldn’t have had that career-defining experience, at least not with him; probably not at this time; maybe not at all. It’s strange to think that something we tend to see as a challenge at best, and a full disability at worst, could be a blessing in disguise to a variety of people.

I sometimes wonder how I would feel if they created a pill to “cure” autism. The easy answer is to grab it and run. Get rid of this invisible disability as fast as possible.

I’m not so sure I could do it, though. Part of who Moose is involves him having autism. I’m not sure who he’d be without it. Of course, no parent wants their child to suffer, but he’s not suffering as far as I can tell. And if him not having autism would take away from his sweet, loving personality, then I don’t think I’d want a cure. Autism doesn’t define Moose, but it is a part of who he is, and I love him just the way he is. I guess after all of these years of joys, triumphs, and, yes, struggles, I don’t want him to be any different!