To the mom in the thick of it
I sent a screenshot of a text exchange with my husband to a friend because she said something that mirrored exactly what I just told my husband. In that screenshot was a photo he sent of Ev eating in an exersaucer, talking about how well he’s eating (IYKYK). My friend, who also is raising a son with medical needs responded wondering if she should try our feeding setup with her son. She said he just can’t eat in a high chair — he needs the stimulation of movement, and when she tries to do it “right,” she ends up with food everywhere. And I couldn’t help but smile, not at her struggle (never that), but at how deeply I recognize it.
Because girl — same.
Ev hates the high chair. Hates it. My girlfriend can sometimes work her magic and get him in there, but me? Not a chance. And you know what? I stopped fighting it. He puts himself into this ridiculous little seat — the one we probably should’ve retired months ago — and he’s happy. He eats. Is it ideal for positioning? Nope.
But it works.
That one text exchange stuck with me more than I expected. It made me think about how this journey of raising these amazing, complex boys is filled with choices we never saw coming. The things we swore we’d never do. The ways we thought it would look. And how quickly all of that unravels the moment real life enters the room.
I know you — I see how hard you try. I know how many times you’ve brought up concerns and been brushed off, how long you’ve carried the weight of unanswered questions, appointments, diagnoses, and the full-time job of figuring it all out. I know you don’t do things halfway. So when you say, “He can’t eat in a high chair,” I believe you — because I’ve been there.
Motherhood, especially motherhood with added complexity, has a way of cracking us open in all the best and hardest ways. It softens us where we once stood firm. It humbles us when we realize that “best practices” sometimes don’t apply. And it teaches us, again and again, that connection always matters more than perfection.
You said something in that message that I can’t stop thinking about:
“Story of our lives with these boys: ‘I know it’s not the best, but it works.’”
There’s something sacred in that line. Something honest. Something tender. It’s where all of us moms of neurodivergent, medically complex, or just gloriously strong-willed little ones live. That space where we let go of what we thought it would be and embrace what actually gets us through the day.
And I want you to know — you’re not alone in that.
You’re not less because it looks different. You’re not doing it wrong because the solution isn’t picture-perfect. You’re doing what works. For him. For you. And that, my friend, is something to be proud of.
We might not be following the book anymore — but maybe that’s because we’re writing a better one. One where our boys are understood. One where needs come before expectations. One where love leads, even if it gets a little messy along the way, and God’s grace is sufficient to fill in the gaps where we still can’t figure out what’s next or how to make the current situation ‘work’.
So here’s to us. To the messy mealtimes, the not-so-ergonomic seating choices, the workarounds, the creative solutions.
I know it’s not the best. But it works.
And for these boys of ours — that’s everything.
