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When people hear my son is non-verbal with autism, they tend to understand things to an extent. They might not know the full range of his specialized needs, but they get it.

There are, however, some who get the wrong view of him altogether. They’ll ask me if he tells me things or likes a particular show. When they hear about how my writing focuses on autism appreciation, they picture a high-functioning person on the spectrum. That’s when I have to get a little more specific and use the term “severe autism,” because that’s what he has.

I’m not completely okay with using that term, but I’m getting more used to it. For the longest time, I said it with a lump in my throat. It felt like I was putting an unfair label onto my boy.

To me, Lucas is Lucas. When I think of “severe autism,” I think of another kid… doing most of the same things Lucas is doing. But that other kid is…well, another kid. Lucas is my kid. When he jumps up in the air clapping and screaming, he’s cute. Someone else? That could be seen as severe autism.

The truth is, that’s what my son has, too. I’ve seen videos online of children referred to as having severe autism and thought, “My kid isn’t able to do half the stuff that kid can.” It can often yank me back to reality with whiplash speed.

That worry about misrepresenting my boy stretches back to the earliest days. The early moments of his journey were filled with me begrudgingly saying the word “autism” out loud. My fear then was that one day he would catch up and be mad that I besmirched his name to others.

Of course, that’s silly. I know that now. The same goes for “severe”. It’s just a word to help others understand the way my son interacts with the world. It doesn’t define him.

I can’t speak for other parents, but I can speak for myself. Through the years, Lucas’s autism has often felt invisible to me. This is him. This is life. As he’s gotten older, it’s become part of our world.

Those early days, though, nothing was invisible. His delays were on full display in the frightened corners of my brain. Every move he made and every step he took, I was watching him. My eyes searched for proof that there was something that I needed to “fix” in his life.

It took a life-changing surgery and a willingness to understand his world view to help me find an appreciation in Lucas’s autism. I saw the wonderful ways it affected him.

Once you do that, the challenges, no matter how challenging, don’t feel like such a challenge anymore.

In my eyes, teaching my son is constant. Trying to get him to advance was always a goal. Yet, it was learning who he is, why he did the things he did, and how to build our relationship that were the most important things for me to do.

Even during the most severe moments of parenting, I’d forget that my son had what many would see as a disability.

I’ll never forget the ridiculous epiphany I had one day when trying to go into a restaurant. Lucas, still fairly small, was melting down over the thought of going inside. Between being overtired and under-happy, he dropped to the ground and refused to move.

At this point, he was little but still large. It was like the strongman competitions when they have to hoist up an imbalanced jug. Sure, he wasn’t a million pounds, but his shifting of weight and flailing of arms was like slam dancing with an octopus. We were the main attraction of the Olive Garden parking lot.

I carried my round mound of sound towards the front door when I noticed all the empty handicapped spots. Out loud, I laughingly said, “Man, we could use one of those.”

Then I realized… we could use one of those.

It could have been the wheelchair on the sign, but I’m pretty sure it was mostly the lenses I saw my son through that clouded my common sense. These parking spots were made for situations much like ours. I hadn’t even figured that a placard like that was something that we could use.

Who else is a better fit than a parent with a young child, doing gravel-angels in the dangerous parking lot, forced to carry their kid half a mile to dinner? That blue-outlined spot should be our spot.

And that’s when I got the sign for the car.

Still, I routinely forget to use it. My guy is cool 99% of the time. So we forget how chaotic that 1% can be… and how it can come without warning.

Many times, I will be driving to a crowded event with my kids when I’ll turn to my daughter and excitedly shout, “Lucas is with us! We can use the handicapped sign!”

We cheer and life is a little easier. There’s no stress and no worry. Still, I feel like I’m cheating the system.

No. Not because we don’t need the closer parking spot. We desperately do. Lucas hates to walk, and if he chooses to push back from leaving the area of the car, it would cause some pretty hazardous situations. Now, if he wants to do a sit-down protest, we’re close enough to the entrance that he can use the sidewalk.

It feels like cheating because I still don’t see it. I’m not sure I ever will. I tie his shoes, wash his hair, and do so many other tasks that most parents don’t even consider once their kid ages out of toddler days. Yet, I see him as my son first. My duties are just part of life.

That’s not meant in a magnanimous way either. This isn’t me saying, “I am so happy to do them that I don’t see it.” No. Frankly, I’m not overly happy to do any chore in my life. I just do them. As it relates to my son, I see it as the hopefully temporary duties that come with having a kid as sweet as mine around

His autism might be severe, but so is my commitment to him. And when that’s the case, it becomes something you can easily see through.