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Please don't call me a saint.

I wish I had a dollar for every person who has tried to pin this label on me. I don't need it. I do however need their understanding and occasionally, their compassion.

I am the mother of an autistic adult. At 20, my son is rapidly coming to terms with his disability. As a young child he was introspective and solitary, at the special developmental school he learned to become vocal, to read and spell and to accept that he was not the most important person in the entire universe. At primary school he would have liked to play with his peers but did not know how. In turn, they found him too strange and different to make an effort to get to know with the exception of a couple of girls in his class. They will never know how grateful I am to them for their kindness to him. At the special school he went to instead of high school, where he could never have coped, he became depressed and almost suicidal because he was aware of being so different and not knowing what to do about it.

It was at the special school that he began his independence training. He started by learning how to get to school on public transport. It was worrying because he is so naive and with his propensity to talk to strangers about inappropriate things he could have ended up in trouble. Five years later I no longer worry and he can get around on the public transport system better than my ex.

Last year was the year from hell. Job changes, the illness and subsequent death of his grandmother with whom we were living, divorce and the re-marriage of his father followed by moving house because it was necessary to sell my childhood home. He coped with all of that admirably. In fact, at some times during the year he became the parent in this family.

He is my strength and my joy as well as my heartache. He is learning now to become more independent. Not relying on me to wake him and make sure he is out of the house on time to get to his day program. I can trust him to shower, with soap, wash his hair and brush his teeth without constant prompting. Finally. I am so proud of him it hurts.

One day I hope he will be self supporting and we are working toward that too. Sometimes his ideas for self employment can be outlandish and totally impractical (like building and selling robots that look like teddy bears), but that is part of the joy of him. He is not limited by practicalities.

So, if you see us in the shopping center where he is squeezing my arm because he cannot get his own way, or trying to convince me to buy an expensive piece of technology that we do not need, do not pity me. Yes, he acts strange still and yes we have our problems, but they are no worse than yours. Only different.

I am not a saint. I am a only mother doing the best she can.

Learn more about this author, Rosemary Mcclease.
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