Mourning Biological Grandchildren

When Dublin was first diagnosed,

I told my therapist that I felt like I was mourning the idea that my king would never love, never get married, never have babies and mid-sentence I caught myself in my own shit-logic and said "wait, there was no guarantee that anyone will ever love or get married or have babies--autistic or not." She laughed. I don't know how many times I have realized a better perspective in the telling of me. It probably annoys her. I don't care; she's outta network.

Now, years later, I am now confident that my king already does love people, particularly his grandfather, his father, his sister, and ME! He hates his dog Spinach though; most people do--he's kind of a punk.

The other day, my eight-year-old typically developing daughter, Lily on her own admonition told me that she isn't a lesbian, but if she was she would have her partner carry the baby because she doesn't want to "push' anything out. She plans to pay a woman to carry her baby if she marries a man. Maybe she isn't all that typical in the developing department. I don't think I thought of the push until I was asked by my O.B. if I wanted to push. Maybe I was just a late bloomer.

2019.

I'm older; maybe wiser.

My own naivete about identity, love and babies has been thawed out and re-worked.

I'm wasting less time mourning outcomes that are pretty up in the air in the first place. 

Leave it to your children to reveal to you that you know nothing about anything.

Leave it to your children to focus you, to help you rely only on what you do know,  which is the here and now; nothing more, nothing less.