I sat by the bay, sipping tea as the kids set out to discover uncharted territory. We were spending time with an old friend and her family on a recent trip to San Francisco. Funny how visits like that always leave me feeling contemplative, triggering memories of a life that seems so long ago and catching up on the selves we sometimes barely recognize in the midst of homework, activities and running a household.
We laughed as we reminisced about our days of working in television together. I swear if I closed my eyes and blocked out the sound of the playing kids, I could almost remember the girls we were — enthusiastic about the future, filled with curiosity, wondering how it all would go. She and I had taken different paths since those days, but Facebook and our respective blogs were helpful in keeping us connected through the years. Before she even spoke, I knew about her family adventures and how they had lived for almost two years on a beautiful boat docked at a northern California marina. And I didn’t have to go into too much detail about life as a minivan-driving suburban wife, she had kept up with my world as well.
But it was only a few minutes in to our three hour visit that I realized that while we had kept in touch, there was so much that was never conveyed online or through holiday cards. Because while I have been known to share the long road to finally bringing our daughter home and those fearful nights my son spent fighting asthma in the ICU, I’ve never really come out and talked directly about one of our biggest struggles — our family’s autism. Continue reading