Broaden your circle.
It was September 2019, and a still, small voice whispered those three words in my ear - the same voice that gives me fresh ideas, reassures me with calming words, and tells me to stop focusing on myself. Along with the message was an excitement in my gut, and I knew it was time deepen some existing relationships and add new friends to my and Cowboy’s circles of friends.
I grew up in a relatively small church, where I attended for over 40 years. But when Cowboy was 11, we changed churches so he could join a special needs class and make friends within that small group. It was love at first church visit, and we’ve attended there ever since. When Cowboy turned 18, it was time for him to transition to Special Friends, the adult class for individuals with challenges. But, as often happens, I wasn’t ready for my baby to move on. And, as always happens, Cowboy started a new adventure and never looked back.
“Cowboy, can you lead singing for us today?” one of the Special Friends directors asked on that first day.
Wow. Someone asked my “non-verbal” son to lead singing. I could’ve died an elated mom at that moment.
I was stunned, then amazed, as Cowboy stood up in front of mostly strangers, and sang in his own way. I still haven’t worked up the nerve to sing karaoke in a dark restaurant. After I left my phone number, Cowboy’s blood type, and copies of my insurance cards with Ruthie, a friend and one of the class directors, Flash and I left. We made the long journey to our own classroom, 50 feet from Cowboy’s class.
Since then, Special Friends has been a vital part of his church family. But those relationships seemed to stop at the church door, of my own doing. Eleven years after switching churches, we’d never had any of Cowboy’s classmates over to our house. It was complicated; worrying about how interactions will go between my son with autism and other kids is a hard habit to break. I realize how short-sighted that was. I wasn’t giving people, including Cowboy, much credit for forging new friendships. We’d been through a lot over the years, and I wasn’t willing to have a failed attempt. I was tired.
But avoiding failed attempts robs us of wonderful successes.
As I contemplated inviting some Special Friends classmates over last year, we were increasingly involved with Special Olympics. Flash and I were getting to know the parents better, and Cowboy loved his fellow athletes. Then, coronavirus hit. Going to church in person stopped. Special Olympics was cancelled for the year. Cowboy’s career within our school district ended forever. Everything dear to Cowboy, it seemed, had come to a screeching halt.
For over three weeks now, because Cowboy knows school always starts back in August, he has consistently told me he is sad. For the majority of his life, Cowboy had never said he was sad; the last time had been when my mom died in 2018.
“Why are you sad, Cowboy?” I asked, as I put my arms around him.
“High school and transition center,” he typed on his iPad.
I’ve repeatedly responded, “I’m sorry you are sad.” I’ve explained how sad I was when high school ended, that it’s time to get a job, and how much fun he will have making friends at work. As I continued to try to fix my son’s emotions, which is totally out of my job description, I realized I needed to shut up.
He needs to be sad, I told myself.
In the midst of all Cowboy’s losses, we’ve needed some normalcy. On-line appointments have helped with that. Speech therapy has continued during these last six months, and Cowboy’s focus has improved using Zoom. Play therapy helps Cowboy with changes and emotions, giving him someone objective to talk to. And, as a plus, on-line appointments have brought much-needed relief to Cowboy’s chauffeur.
In efforts to preserve my sanity, and to stay grounded spiritually, this summer I joined an on-line Bible study with moms of special needs kids. I’d met with them in person last year, but the continuation of those relationships, especially during this time of physical isolation, brought closer friendships. As that study ended, I joined another on-line study with strangers from my church. It’s a large church, so it’s possible to meet someone on a weekly basis. The group is a wonderful fit for me, although it always feels a little strange to join a new group.
“But you’re a people person,” Flash often says when I’m nervous about joining a group or spending time with other families for the first time.
“Yes, but I don’t know how things will go. It’s still the unfamiliar.” My own feelings help me understand Cowboy’s anxiety, even regarding good things. People and situations are often unpredictable, so I understand his apprehension. Anxiety is not always rational. My job isn’t to choreograph Cowboy’s life so that he has no anxiety, but to help him through various situations. I’m learning to stop fearing and start branching out for the sake of Cowboy’s circle, and mine.
And so, two weeks ago, Cowboy finally had a Special Friends classmate over. After almost six months without his class, he’s been missing his group. Kirana was delighted to swim, hang out in the hot tub, and eat lunch with us. All my worries faded the moment she and Cowboy saw each other. And it gave me a chance to get to know her mom, Lily, outside of our Bible study. The next week, we went to Kirana’s house for the first time, then to a community pool. There was more laughter. I was elated; we’d had two successful get-togethers.
What most often deters me from inviting new friends over, especially to swim, are my concerns regarding communication. Since most of Cowboy’s friends don’t know sign language, and Cowboy can’t use his iPad in the pool, I worry that others will lose interest in spending time with him. Which, of course, has never actually happened. The Short-Sighted Mother strikes again.
But I’m continually reminded, by the genuine friends in my son’s life as well as those unexpected moments with strangers, that the truest connections transcend words, verbal or otherwise.
When Cowboy sat on the splash pad during our recent visit to Margaritaville Lake Conroe, waiting for the huge bucket overhead to dumps gallons of water on his head, I saw this truth first-hand. As younger children came, one-by-one, to sit next to Cowboy and wait for the deluge, they all laughed together. And my heart laughed too.
When we returned home, Cowboy reverted to talking about his sadness. I decided it had been long enough since we’d seen any of his Special Olympics friends. I texted two moms who are home during the day, and asked what they were doing. At discovering they and their kids were having a game day, I asked, “Can Cowboy and I join y’all?” I’ve learned the best way to not feel left out is to initiate connections.
“Of course,” they answered, and we were out the door in five minutes.
Because Cowboy hadn’t spent time with them outside of Special Olympics, we’d be in a new setting with them. But everybody was delighted to see us, and we spent the next three hours playing games together. Next week, we’ll have them over to our place. So far, all of our circle-expanding attempts have been huge triumphs. It’s been a breath of fresh air and a season of growth during a time that, externally, looks bleak.
Then, last Saturday, we visited church friends Frankie, Annette, Hooper, and Gilligan at their beach house. Because both Cowboy and Hooper are on the autism spectrum, I was somewhat apprehensive. But I’d been wanting us to spend time with them for many years. As usual, my silent questioning began.
What if Cowboy gets anxious, and it causes Hooper to stress out?
What if Hooper gets anxious, and it causes Cowboy to stress out?
What if I stay stressed out, and drive everyone crazy?
What if Cowboy is too loud for Hooper’s nap time after swimming?
What if the age gap between the kids means they won’t connect?
What if aliens land on the beach, and commandeer our chips and cold drinks?
On and on it went. My neurotic brain is fertile soil for the growth of what-ifs.
But when we drove into their driveway, I heard excited shouts. “Cowboy! Cowboy! Cowboy! Cowboy!” Not even out of the car yet, Cowboy had a cheering section. What a welcome – to be celebrated simply because he was present. Even their dog came to greet us at our car.
Annette had assured me that being with their family would be a “safe place.” I need not worry. We agreed this would be our trial run, to see if perhaps in the future, we could stay overnight. Spending an entire day and evening with a family for the first time can bring unexpected issues; tiredness, hunger, and a need for quiet can trigger difficult emotions.
But, much to my delight, our boys fit together well, and 10 hours flew by. Sharing floats and boogie boards, laughing in the waves, taking golf cart rides, eating a lunch fit for a king, and experiencing no serious injuries – all went swimmingly, so to speak. We even had group nap time.
Our hosts were gracious and kind, as were Hooper and Gilligan. When Cowboy pulled out his iPad, Gilligan began asking Cowboy questions, and Hooper read what Cowboy typed. It was thrilling to see them engage. Flash and Frankie had some guy time, and Annette and I had a ball. We went crabbing in the evening, another first for Cowboy as well as Flash, and said goodbye after sunset, with plans to spend more time together soon.
This unprecedented period in our lifetime has forced us to find creative ways to connect, to meet in smaller groups, and to venture out of our familiar zone. Cowboy quickly adjusted to not hugging every human being, and ceased the wedding-receiving-line-hand-shaking ritual with society at large. He is quite happy waving hello, which will be a more appropriate skill when he lands a job.
Our key to a calmer, more content life is connecting with others, any way we can get it. And in the process, our circles will continue to grow and thrive.