I Am THAT Mom at the Playground, and Here’s Why

self insemination kit

I’m that mom. You know the one—sprinting around the park, hair in a perpetual ponytail, and a sheen of sweat on my forehead. I’m the one scaling the jungle gym, sliding down with my little one nestled between my legs.

I see you there, sipping coffee and chatting with your friends. I catch your glances as I dart past with my son, and I wish I could join your laughter. We’ve crossed paths before, and there’s a warmth to your smile that I appreciate. I’d love to sit down with you, share a cup of coffee, and swap stories about our kids’ latest escapades.

Your kids are the same age as mine, and I notice them as my son dashes by, almost colliding with them. They play together, while I smile and wave back at you, saying, “Can’t stop—gotta keep up with the little guy!”

It’s not that I’m ignoring you or being standoffish; it’s just that I’m that mom who has a son with autism. Communication doesn’t come easy for him, and he’s often clumsy on the slides. He’s a bundle of energy, always in motion, with little understanding of danger.

So, here I am—scaling ladders, crawling through tunnels, and whooshing down slides, always wearing a smile. I’m the mom who encourages other kids to include my son, cheering him on as he navigates the playground.

You’ll notice I never sit down. I long to pull up a chair at your table, but the reality is that leaving the house with my son is a workout in itself. I want him to experience joy, and honestly, getting outside feels essential for both of us.

You might have noticed my choice of attire: sturdy tennis shoes instead of flip-flops (no tripping while I chase), and a tank top because I’m always on the go, often drenched in sweat. I don’t carry a purse or a water bottle; I need my hands free at all times.

In the few minutes we’ve been here, my son and I have explored every inch of the playground. I’ve scouted the area like a seasoned detective, aware of every potential risk. I can’t relax, though; I’m always ready to leave in case of a meltdown. I’ve witnessed the stares and heard the harsh words directed at my son, and I can’t bear to go through that again.

You’ve complimented my parenting before, saying how inspiring I am. I remember a time when we chatted, and you expressed admiration for how I handle my son. Occasionally, those comments sting, making me feel isolated and different from you and your friends.

I watch as you enjoy a picnic, laughing with your kids who are sitting nicely and eating. I feel a pang of jealousy, longing for that relaxed connection, wishing I could sit alongside you and share these moments.

As I glance away, my son heads toward the sandbox. Oh, the sandbox. I see your friend scoop her child up as Cooper plops down. Initially, I feel defensive—he’s just a little boy—but then I see him with sand in hand, one pile for throwing and another for tasting. Thank goodness for that intervention; it saves me a potential awkward moment.

I sit down briefly before my son is off again, unable to enjoy the beautiful day around us. I can’t afford to be distracted; the risk of a meltdown looms if we stay too long.

You stroll toward the restroom, but I can’t take Cooper in there. I’ve had to hold my own needs for far too long.

“Mom, watch me!” I hear joyful shouts from other kids, words I’ve never heard from my son. He’s almost seven, and he doesn’t communicate in that way. His autism is profound, which makes his behavior puzzling to many.

I notice children eyeing Cooper’s iPad. I understand the curiosity; even I sometimes question its necessity. Yet for him, it’s a source of comfort, and some days, I lack the energy for a battle over it.

You see me as a supermom, an inspiration, but on tough days, I wonder how I keep going. Last night was restless, filled with thoughts about therapies and diets. I can’t let fear about losing support creep in.

We are different, yet similar. We both have two children of the same age. While you enjoy your day, I feel a bubble of loneliness growing inside me.

And just like that, my son begins to melt down. I scoop him up, struggling under the weight of his flailing limbs. You wave goodbye, and I want to reciprocate, but my arms are full. I barely catch your invitation to chat next time.

As I carry my son to the car, I glance back at the park, filled with families enjoying their time—wondering if they’re relieved to see us leave.

I am that mom.

In summary, I navigate the challenges of parenting a child with autism while longing for connection with other moms. My experiences in public spaces often leave me feeling isolated, and while I strive to provide joy for my son, the journey can be overwhelming and lonely.