My exhausted body drops into the couch. My legs are splayed over the coffee table. I reach over to my abandoned coffee cup. I carefully take a sip to only find out it has gone cold. With a big sigh I get off the couch to dump the remains into the sink. I step aside my three-year-old daughter who is racing around the dining room and into the living room. Her Santa hat goes flying in the air as she turns the corner.

I refill my coffee cup and amble to sit down again. We have just returned from a doctor’s appointment after dropping my oldest daughter off at kindergarten.  My youngest is beginning the steps to have therapy to help her autistic behaviours. She was also up very early this morning. The weight of the sleep and stress exhaustion makes me grumpy. I kick a toy to the side and sit down again.

For the past year I have witnessed my girl grow slowly through the development milestones. Her speech is also delayed. We began the search for the right programs and therapies after the assessments that diagnosed her with ASD (autism spectrum disorder.)  For some reason she is deciding sleep is not an option lately. The constricting guilt of if I am at fault as to why she received the label keeps me up at night. I wonder if it had to be  me being put under for her birth. The planned caesarean was hampered by my back not able to receive the spinal tap or epidural. Her big size didn’t help.  I wonder if I didn’t eat something I should have while pregnant. I had seven months of morning sickness while pregnant with her.  And once again, like a million times before, when I start going down this road I cry.

I hear her giggle bounce off the walls as she rounds the corner to run through the rooms. Her senses love certain textures and movement. So she is wearing her Santa hat and a ballet tutu for the sixth day in a row.  Since she is three, we allow her the happiness the ensemble gives her. When she is sixteen it might not look so ‘normal’ at school. She runs around again only this time to barrel towards me. I open my arms to receive the biggest bear hug.  Her hat comes loose. She hands it to me so I can put it back on. She bounces up again and is off. My guilty reverie fades as her hug reminds me of one thing, she is my daughter. I am lucky to be her mom.

The presents remain scattered on the floor. It looks like a toy store exploded here. I am excited for my two daughters who have been hit with the Christmas magic. My two beauties are running around the room playing from toy to toy.  In my heart, I am biting my tongue. When I should be grateful for the gifts my girls got I can’t help but notice the pink elephant in the living room.

I look at all what my oldest daughter received from friends and family. Next to hers is what my youngest girl got, or lack thereof. I can’t help but worry if that it’s her autism causing loved ones to ‘cheat’ her on equal gifts. The stigma of her diagnosis has been unbalanced to say the least in social graces of our world. Many of our  friends and their aunts bestowed gifts upon them to the hilt. There are some who did not. I know my youngest doesn’t connect with it but one day she will. And then how do I tell her why she is not like her sister.

I am not angry. I am partially feeling guilty on what I am processing. I am new to the ‘special needs’ social standings. I am saddened at the true loved ones who slighted them.  I do not know if I have to bite my tongue and not flare out at the mis- gift givers.

My dear young one comes racing towards me for a bear hug. We squeeze each other tight. And then she is off. I watch her in her own bubble world. I hope she can remain that blissfully aware of how the world sees her, or rather how some see her. I struggle to keep her as innocent as I can while she goes through her therapy. I will always  adore her. She is always my daughter no matter what label.

How would you handle this situation? Have you experienced this before? I would really appreciate insight on this matter. I know it will sadly not be the last.