Some mornings in our house are not about getting everyone dressed, fed, and out the door. They are about nervous systems, proximity, light, and timing. They are about knowing when to move closer, when to stay still, and when love looks like letting a plan fall apart.
I woke up in my child’s bed after one of those nighttime reshufflings familiar to so many families: one child in my bed, me in theirs, everyone just trying to find enough space and enough rest. Morning light slipped through the window in a long, narrow ribbon. I watched it through half-closed eyes before I smelled coffee drifting down the hall.
My spouse was already up. My child was up too, moving between stillness and motion in that particular way that can look almost choreographed if you know them well enough. I hugged my spouse good morning, and my child climbed onto me as I carried us both downstairs, their body wrapped around mine, already talking, already bringing yesterday with them.
I settled them on the couch and poured coffee into my favorite mug, adding oat milk as the sun began to reach into the living room. I pulled down the shade just enough. I found my book. Cup on the green stool. Legs tucked up. A small pocket of morning.
Around me, my child moved through the room in bursts. A pause at the piano. A stop for slime. A quick return to me, pressing close, bringing energy, contact, and the faint possibility that some of that slime might now live forever on my bathrobe.
My spouse suggested walking to get bagels and invited our child along. And just like that, the morning shifted.
They fell to the floor beside me and suddenly their body could not do what had seemed possible a moment before. Their bottom hurt. Standing was hard. Walking for bagels was out of the question. They needed my lap, but not quite in the usual way. They needed their body held just so, with nothing touching the sore place, legs stretched out, nervous system and body both making demands that had to be listened to immediately.
In the middle of all this, my spouse appeared with water and morning medication. The minimum care for the start of the day. My child swallowed both pills with an ease that still impresses me.
Then came the next shift.
“Mom, I can’t move my legs.”
I could see small movements. I could see signs that not everything was frozen. But I also knew that what mattered first was not arguing with the experience. It was listening. So I listened, and then I carried my increasingly heavy nine-year-old to the breakfast table like a baby, stiff-legged and determined, while they pulled out my chair with their working arms so I would not drop them.
I poured cereal and milk. I sat nearby. They wanted me closer. I wanted the sun.
That is the kind of truth families often live inside: two real needs, both real, both important.
They asked me to pick a number between five and ten: how many pages I could read before coming to sit with them. I picked five, then tried for ten. They held the line. They suggested a timer. I told them timers felt stressful to me. They agreed to pages instead, but warned me not to lie. It would be easy, they said, to lie about pages read.
They were absolutely right, of course.
I told them I would not lie, and I meant it. I also suspected they would be done with breakfast long before I finished ten pages, and I was right about that too.
Soon they were back in my lap asking what they should read. I suggested one of their new books. To my surprise, they agreed. They sat with me, book in hand, body pressed close, the two of us trying to share a small patch of sun and enough space for both of our needs. After a while it was too tight, too much, and they moved to the couch within sightline.
Parallel play. Parallel rest. Parallel reading. Not together exactly, but absolutely connected.
They asked me to come sit beside them. Instead, I stretched my arms toward them from my chair, fluttered my fingers in the air, and smiled. Air tickles. Near, but not too near. Contact without demand. They smiled back and settled in.
And there it was again: the thing I think so many people miss.
What can look from the outside like inconsistency, drama, control, or chaos is so often a child trying to find safety in their body, safety in relationship, safety in a world that asks too much too quickly and too often in the wrong language.
I worry about the future. I worry about what it means to be autistic people in a world that does not make enough room for autistic ways of being. That worry is real. It lives close to the surface.
But so does this moment.
For today, for this morning, we both had what we needed.
I had my spot in the sun.
They had their air tickles.
And for that moment, we were safe.
They were seen.
They were loved.
Sometimes that is the whole job.
A Note from the Author
What I want families to know is this: not every successful morning is tidy, efficient, or independent. Sometimes success looks like adaptation. Sometimes it looks like reading in parallel, changing the plan, or holding a child in exactly the way their body can manage. Sometimes the goal is not productivity. Sometimes the goal is safety, connection, and enough support for the next moment to unfold.
Contact Orchid Pediatrics
At Orchid Pediatrics, we stay ahead of the latest research and innovation in the fields of behavioral and developmental pediatrics. We want to provide you and your child with comprehensive, forward-thinking care that addresses all of their needs—physical and mental. If you would like to talk to us about your child, please call (503) 408-2007 to contact to our clinical team.
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This blog is for entertainment, informational, and general educational purposes only and should not be considered to be healthcare advice or medical diagnosis, treatment or prescribing. The Content is not intended to be a substitute for professional medical care. Always seek the advice of your qualified health provider with any questions you may have regarding a medical condition. Never disregard professional medical advice or delay in seeking it because of something you have read on this website.
