The Waiting Room Moms

When Alexa was first diagnosed, lots of people told me I should find a support group.  Her pediatrician even looked up information about local groups and shared it with me.  And as time went on there were variations on the theme “So, what support groups are available?”  I tried our local Asperger’s support group, dropped in from time to time if the monthly topic interested me, and even recommended it to new parents.  But, I have to admit there has always been a part of me that’s said, “Really, I have to squeeze in ANOTHER thing?”

Parents are busy – there are all sorts of demands on the typical parents’ time.  Sports, scouts, and school demands on family time are the topic of many an article or study.  Modern family life seems to mean a hectic rush from dawn to dusk to cram 16 hours of activity into 12 hours of daytime.  Now add to that Social Skills group, Occupational Therapy, and Psychotherapy plus a myriad of specialists appointments.  And try to make sure that your “typical” child has all the opportunities his or her peers have.  And add to that going to a support group so you can learn more and find peers?!? You get the picture.

Enter the “waiting room moms.”  I say moms because, for the most part, it’s the moms who are logging the hours in the waiting room for whatever reason (though the best idea yet came from a dad – more on that at the close of this post).  There is a community that springs up in the waiting rooms of therapists who treat multiple kids on a regular basis (as in, you have a weekly appointment and so do several other families).  I first noticed my community in the OT waiting room, just about the time the book “Rules” came out (it’s a great chapter book about a girl whose brother has autism) with a plot line about the waiting room group.  And I realized there was something special about the waiting room dynamic.

At that time, the OT worked out of her basement.  Her “waiting room” was four chairs, set in pairs that faced each other.  If you were lucky, the chair across from you was empty and you could prop your feet on it.  If you were really really lucky, the chair across from the one next to you was filled with one of your favorite moms.  We identified each other by our kids – Tate’s mom, Brad’s mom, Mallory’s mom, etc. (not real names, by the way).  But we knew each other by the comfort and advice we gave one another.  Like the time Tate’s mom told me she put a snug undershirt under his regular clothes to help make him more comfortable.  Or the time I gave Brad’s mom a tip on summer camps that provide disability support services for no additional cost.

When Rita the OT moved to a “real” office we weren’t sure what would happen – there was so much space, we wouldn’t be forced to speak to each other anymore.  Would those conversations continue?  Particularly with the Tuesday Morning store in the same office complex?  As it turned out, the support group just got bigger.  And we started acknowledging its place in our lives.  One group of moms (the slot just before ours), made sure that they stayed together when the schedule was (re)arranged every 6 months.  My set of moms actually got to know each other’s first names.  And on occasion we’d say “Oh, I’ve been waiting for Wednesday so I could ask you…”  I felt bad when John or my mother in law did OT duty – I suspect they got a few odd looks and I know John was questioned on my whereabouts once.

We also started attracting the occasional scared looking “newbie” parents.  It’s funny, you can’t really say “Clearly your child has autism. Feel free to ask us questions if you are scared.”  But the subtle (or maybe not so subtle) ways those doors were opened always intrigued me.  Sometimes it was as simple as saying “No apologies needed.  Been there, done that, it’ll get better,” to the mom apologizing for her child who is melting down.  Sometimes it was engaging in conversation with the child about their “special interest” and telling them our own kids had that interest when they were younger.  And sometimes the newbie moms just heard us talking and started asking questions.

And then Abby’s dad arrived.  For a couple of months we wondered why he left for a chunk of time during her appointment.  Particularly when we learned they lived an hour away.  Gradually, he got to know “the moms” and eventually he told us where he went – to the bowling alley across the parking lot, to get a beer.  Why hadn’t WE come up with that?!?!  Because really, what we ALL needed, as much or more than chit-chatty support, was “down time.” 

And so began “bowling alley time.”  Somehow, moving those conversations to the bowling alley snack bar made us feel like we were doing something for ourselves.  Sure, we still talked about kids and school and camps and such; but it became a whole different and far more relaxing conversation in that other context.  It felt like we were choosing to do something apart from our kids.  We were getting ourselves out of the “I’m a parent of a kid who needs these services” mode and into “I’m a normal person hanging out in a bowling alley” mode. 

I don’t miss the exhaustion from running to three appointments a week (in addition to after school theatre taxiing and that was just for one of my kids).  But when we stopped going to OT last summer, it wasn’t just the office staff that I felt sad to leave.  I also left my “bowling alley peeps.”  And, crazy as it sounds out of context, it was a big step for me too. 

All of us parenting on the spectrum need a place we can go for information and support.  Sometimes you find it at a formal support group.  Sometimes you find it on the internet.  But if you get lucky, you might just find it in the waiting room or at the bowling alley.