I focus a lot on the positives of raising a non-verbal child with autism. My posts are usually about learning things that can help us form a better bond. I appreciate my son, understand so much more about him than I ever dreamed I would, and know he’s the perfect kid for me.

That said, I always don’t sugarcoat those early days. Just a toddler at the time of diagnosis, Lucas acted in ways that didn’t exactly match up with what all the baby books said. It left me without answers when people asked me the simplest of questions.

Is he excited for his birthday?

Does he have any friends?

Why is he doing that with his hands?

Shrugs replaced answers and, right up until they came to us with an “official” statement on his so-called disability, I felt like the worst parent on Earth.

After all, how did I not know so much about my kid? He was brand new to my life and, while other parents were building bonds and finding shared interests, I was trying to figure out why my boy was incessantly clapping and shunning any form of social interaction.

cute baby lucas

Then, the diagnosis came and everyone finally said autism out loud. One would think this would bring a sigh of relief, but it didn’t. Even if you remove the guilt, worry, and wait-and-see-maybe-its-not-really-autism mentality, it still left me with a different concern. It’s a concern that still plagues me to this day.

How can I possibly know or do enough for a boy with such specialized needs?

After all, questions from neurotypical parents were hard to answer. Friends? Birthday parties? Stimming movements? I have no idea. I couldn’t answer those people, but maybe that’s because their children weren’t like mine. Finally, things would be different.

These were the parents in my little village. The things we’d discuss would make so much more sense to me. These were supposed to be my people. It would all make sense, right?

No. The initial meetings with parents of other neurodivergent kids had a completely new angle on my insecurities. The words and phrases they used left me with a blank expression.

I.E.P., C.S.E., 6-3-1, OPDD, CAARS testing, PDD, ADHD, AT&T, MCI, WXY&Z…I had no idea what anyone was talking about. There were letters, numbers, and abbreviations at every turn and here I am just trying to figure out what to put in this kid’s lunch.

I felt lost and scared. How can I raise a kid with autism when I know nothing about autism? I’m brand new to all of this but so many other parents who were also new to this seemed to know everything. Look at me. For the second time in just a few years, I was again the worst parent in the world.

Through the years, I’ve done my best to learn what these terms and phrases mean and I’ve gotten a pretty good handle on it. Still, I am now and probably always will be worried that I don’t do enough.

It’s nearly impossible to keep up with all the activities, services, and paperwork that come with having a non-verbal child like Lucas. Every discussion with every special needs parent comes with another reminder that I’m dropping the ball…even when I’m not.

It’s Not the Spilled Cheerios That Keep Me Up at Night

For instance, I could spend hours teaching my boy to put on his shoes or say the word “hi”. Time is devoted just to him and working to make sure he can do all things he needs to do. Anyone observing us from the outside would think we’re doing great work together.

While I’m proud of those moments, they pale in comparison to the moments that bring me down…even when those moments shouldn’t bring me down.

Another parent in Lucas’s class might mention how they signed their child up for a special-education kickball team. I’ll listen to the words and, almost immediately, I’ll start beating myself up internally.

Why didn’t I sign him up? I didn’t even know about it! What a bad dad I am. Lucas loves kickball!

Then, I’ll stop and think…

Wait a minute. No, he doesn’t. I can barely get him to walk down the block without whining. He doesn’t even like kickball.

Yet another voice in my head chimes in and says…

Well, maybe he doesn’t like to walk down the street because you don’t get him enough exercise like signing him up for kickball. Bad dad! Bad dad!

And suddenly I’m chastising myself for missing one single thing in a sea of activities, interactions, and happy moments we already share. As a special needs dad, I never pat myself on the back for the 99 things I do with my son. I simply kick myself for the one thing I missed.

I’m trying not to do that anymore, but it’s difficult. The biggest worry I had when Lucas was little was that I wouldn’t be able to do enough. It’s that the one thing I skipped would be the one missing piece that he needs to get that desperate step up the ladder. I’d fail him and not even know I was doing it.

Early Lessons About Behavior Made All the Difference for My Non-Verbal Son

The reason I’m sharing this is because, through this blog, I get messages from other parents in similar situations about the work I do with my boy. People congratulate me on my relationship with him and the work I do to show him how loved he is. Those messages mean the world to me.

I want those who think that about me and Lucas to know that if I still feel this way sometimes, it’s OK that they do too. We all do. The greatest parents among us want to make sure we’re doing everything we can for our kids. We never rest on our laurels and say, “OK. I’m done. We’ve done everything we can do.”

There will never be a time when I’ll be done. The journey I have as a parent will last until the day I’m no longer on this Earth. I’m even focused on what I can set up for when I’m gone. This is a commitment that lasts for Lucas’s entire life, not mine.

Do whatever you can for your child. I know I do. When that voice creeps in, listen to the points that make you work harder. Don’t listen to those that beat you up. People worried that they’re not doing enough as a parent are already great parents for one simple reason.

Bad parents don’t worry that they’re not doing enough for their children. Good parents do.