For the neurodivergent parents of neurodivergent kids I didn’t come here to tell you I love my kids. I came here to suck and spit venom. Have you ever looked down to see an arrow of your own making sticking out of your chest? That’s the job. I drag myself to the edge of the battlefield to pull these arrows out through the other side. I have been paying myself first, but honestly? I am hanging on by a tenuous spider’s thread. My responsibilities have sucked all the stone out of my bones and the meat from my muscles; Brittle I scrape across the ground; spite and stubbornness are the heaviest things I can carry are what hold me to the ground. The only fuel I have to toss into this engine is the compressed mineral of rage. Because there is nowhere to put this! Because I get shocked snatching you back from live wires Because I had to jump on the grenade you unlocked Because you start fights that I have to finish Because …

Mornings in the fall are subtle reminders that how things begin isn’t always how it ends. As the sun rises the frost thins, the leaves fall gracefully in silence, making a nest of colors beneath, unwilling to decay. Motherhood is like spring. We envision flowers blooming as our womb expands like accordions ready to sing. We guess the lyrics of the song and dance in the illusion of all the unknowns. We live in the symphony and speed past the breaks. That is the fallacy of dreams. Craving the touch of sun rays while leaping the sweat, wrinkles, and burns. We love to laugh but dislike laugh lines. We want the goodness without the mess. Being a mother to a diverse child is like Autumn. The third season that was thought of last. An ambivalence of slow mornings with unpredictable afternoons. We don’t call it fall because our children are not a decay. They are the transition between the two seasons most people skip, think of last. Everyone focuses on the beginning or the end of the story. The rising and falling action are …