Some days, I don’t know how to be a good parent. I have a nearly 13-year-old boy, on the verge of puberty, who already has surges of testosterone that make him difficult and mouthy and mean in a way that my sweet boy of yore never was before. And this boy is autistic. He has trouble communicating in socially acceptable ways. He can’t focus when he’s not medicated — medications that he hates because they blunt his appetite, his ability to imagine things, and the ease with which he can go to sleep. He’s loud. He has issues with small motor skills. Sometimes it’s hard to tease out what is autism and what is normal hormonal teenager stuff. I tell my brother about how long it takes my son to get ready for bed and he has equivalent stories about my neurotypical niece.

Right now, he’s in the shower, lost after three minutes, jumping and flapping. In a couple minutes, we’ll have to shout up to him to focus. It’s a word that gets shouted a lot in our home.

He has perception problems — what you say, how he talks, it’s not always English as we know it. I speak Seth’s English pretty well. I know what he means, how he parses sentences. But most other people don’t, including his dad. It’s frustrating. He can’t see and hear at the same time — if you are trying to show him something and talking to him about it, you can either have him listen to your words or look at the thing you are showing him.

From the time I was pregnant, people were telling me that parenthood is life-changing in only good ways, that it would improve my patience, that I would fall in love with being a mom immediately. But even though Seth was a remarkably easy baby, I didn’t think parenting was this walk in the park that was all sweetness and light. It was hard. I was tired. It was hard to give up my life, the freedom to go where we wanted when we wanted. And very early on, I had suspicions that there was something odd about my child. He didn’t roll over or wave. Sometimes I thought he was deaf. But he was happy, and he seemed to meet all the milestones. His doctor, my mom, my husband — they all told me not to be ridiculous, that he was fine.

When Seth was two, we began having deeper suspicions. He didn’t play like other children or with other children. His daycare providers brought in a specialist to observe him. She suggested we have him tested at Children’s Hospital and with our school district. Even though it was weeks before we had results, we started him in speech therapy immediately at her suggestion. He had just turned three.

We eventually had a diagnosis of high functioning autism/Asperger’s syndrome. We added occupational therapy and play therapy to his routine, and the school district put him in an early outreach program. Little of the therapy was covered by the insurance we then had. Happily, all the therapists took credit cards. I don’t regret the expense; indeed, I wonder what people without insurance or a lot of available credit do.

It took us years to pay off the debt, but Seth progressed remarkably well. He is far more normal than not. Indeed, most people — on a good day — wouldn’t be able to tell Seth from any other kid. I can, but you couldn’t. One of the problems of his being so close to normal is that people expect him to act normally. Kids don’t cut him the slack they do for more obviously disabled children. Neither do some adults. He is repetitive, relates entire scenes from movies that interest him — usually those involving war, spying, action, or mayhem — whether they interest you or not. He asks questions and imparts information at will, whether you are involved in something else or not. He can be as irritating as that one little spot on your new shoes that rubs your heel raw — you think you can take it, that it will stretch out and go away. But it doesn’t.

Sometimes in public he jumps, flaps, is loud. Other adults will look at us like we’re bad parents. I think often of getting a shirt that says, “We’re not bad parents; he’s autistic.” We have our lighthearted moments, too: like talking about putting a bumper sticker on the car that says “jumpinflappin” — you know, like that old one from the ’80s “Funkengruven”.

Every day is hard in its own way. Along with Seth’s condition, in our home we’ve had to deal with my rather intractable case of rheumatoid arthritis, the drug regimen I have to follow for it, and the side effects of those drugs. I also happen to work in an industry — publishing — that is hurting and trying to find its way in the new millennium.The recession and a 75% cut in my income has added stress to our situation.

So here’s the point: when a friend tells you her problems, when she comes to you at her wits’ end and just wants to complain about her life, please don’t tell her that God will never give her more than she can handle. Because in that moment, she can’t handle it. Life has gotten her down, trampled on her, squashed her dreams and made her mourn for the future that she once envisioned for herself and her child. Some days, she can’t handle it and she just needs you to say it’s okay and offer to handle some of it for her. Sometimes that just means going out for a mojito with her. Or it might mean asking what can you do to help. Or it might be just nodding and saying nothing. Don’t tell her you know she can handle anything, because maybe she can’t and the next thing that happens to her might be the one that sends her over the edge.