Last week I went through a rough spot with my son at school. The details of the situation aren’t important. What is important is that it left me devastated.

The details don’t matter because, from the day my son was born nearly eight years ago, there have been constant situations. His life has been one, big struggle and therefore, my life with him has been as well.

In the midst of last week’s ordeal, I was shooting off an e-mail and made a statement about how having a child like my son is “such a challenge.” The person to whom the e-mail was sent, responded by saying that “all parents feel challenged” and that “I am not alone.”

I understand she was reaching out. I understand she was trying to make me feel better. Misery loves company, after all. The problem is that I do feel alone.

My son is different. He is unlike any other child I have ever known. I have had experiences as a parent that most people never will.

All parents know what it’s like to get up with a baby in the middle of the night, but how many moms had to feed their baby every three hours, round the clock for thirteen months? And, it took an hour and a half at a time just to feed him two ounces of milk.

How many parents have handed off their kid to a surgeon? Nine times.

Most kids don’t obsess over the number 10, want to rub people’s arms or have to take medicine every day of their life. Most parents don’t have to worry that their child will have a stroke, or watch him to make sure he doesn’t look more blue than usual.

My son can’t hear well, can’t speak well, chokes easily, vomits easily…and all of this? Is after he has come leaps and bounds thanks to countless therapy sessions. The occupational, physical and speech therapy sessions that most parents never have to attend.

I find myself constantly clenching my teeth, my body tense, my mind anxious.

My son is not a typical child and that’s okay. With the exception of taking away the physical pain he has suffered, I wouldn’t change a thing.

Watching him overcome so much, seeing him grow and become someone we never thought possible has been amazing. It is a journey like no other and, though the road has been bumpy, it has taken me to beautiful places that I didn’t even know existed.

The events of last week left me upset, not because I wanted pity, but because I wanted understanding and respect for my child. I don’t want his struggles to be dismissed, because they are not average. They’re monumental.

As for me? Well, every parent faces challenges, but I am guessing that they don’t dredge up the memories of the hundreds of challenges which came before. That is where I was last week; standing alone, in a place where images of our past were swirling around my head. Visions that left me sick and dizzy and ready to circle the wagons around my boy.

My son is not every child and I am not every parent. There are times when we can stand side-by-side with our peers, but there are just as many times that there is no comparing us whatsoever.

There are times when we are alone. And sometimes, being alone gets awfully lonely.

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On Saturday night we invited some friends over for pizza. Let’s say, hypothetically, that this was a last-minute get-together. I actually knew about it for days.

When you have two dogs, two kids and a husband who doesn’t care when the house is dirty, it won’t do any good to clean ahead of time. You can’t straighten up until an hour before your guests arrive or else dirty socks and half-chewed dog bones magically appear.

After my daughter’s morning track meet we came home and went to work. She dealt with the clutter, while I vacuumed, mopped, dusted and cleaned the half bath. Although there were random shoes laying around when our friends arrived, for the most part the house looked clean. Well, clean enough anyway. They’re friends, not royalty.

Everything was fine until one of the moms in the group offered to read my son a bedtime story. She took him upstairs, made sure he brushed his teeth and got him into bed. I got a night off from the bedtime routine and my son got a night off from me rushing him through it.

So, what’s the problem? The problem is that she went upstairs.

Upstairs to the land of unmade beds and a kids’ bathroom with soap on the faucet, toothpaste on the mirror, dog hair on the floor and a huge rust stain in the tub. And there is a table in the hallway that looks like I am trying to feed the dust mites until they’ve had their fill.

If I had remembered the mess that awaited her, I would have never let her climb the steps. I was this close to faking her out and letting her believe that I’m a decent housekeeper.

Clearly, I need to be more conscious of where my guests go. Either that, or my next house needs to be a ranch.

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We have great neighbors. Really, I just love them. One of them is my boss. I love her the most. What? I can be shameless if I want to.

The neighbors immediately to our east are wonderful too. They take great care of us. And by take care of us, I mean bring us cupcakes and cookies and homemade jelly.

Not to mention that they have one of the most beautiful yards on the street. Just last night I opened a window and a lovely floral aroma wafted into my kitchen. No air freshener necessary!

But, the best thing is that there is no competition between us. I mean no competition. At all. As in, none. Here is proof of that…

These are their hostas.

These are mine. See those little green stubs? But, look! Mulch!

This is their pretty, potted plant.

These are mine. Oh, okay! These are last year’s potted plants which are still sitting on my patio.

These are their ferns.

These are my ferns which they gave me after dividing some of theirs a few years ago. Oh, the shame.

This is just one of their flower beds.

And, this is one of mine. At least my dogs have already started digging holes for me. Head start bonus!

This is their well-tilled garden plot from which they will gather vegetables later this year.

And this? Is where I will gather mine.

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Yesterday, a disturbed man entered our church in the middle of mass. He didn’t appear to be homeless, or otherwise in a bad financial state. He was wearing clean, white shorts, sunglasses and had headphones on with music blaring so loud that everyone could hear it.

He walked down the center aisle and sat in a pew near the altar. When our deacon came down the steps and asked him to turn his music off, this man began to yell. Loudly.

A group of men jumped to the deacon’s aide and they escorted the intruder to the back of the church and out a set of doors. One of those men was my husband. My kids began to cry.

I won’t get in to what my husband told me this man said when they were back there, but it was a lot of nonsense and there were some threats made. The police were called. Had I known the words that were coming out of his mouth, I would have taken my kids and ran. The entire ordeal was very unsettling.

I held my weeping son with one arm and had my other arm wrapped around my daughter’s shoulder, pulling her tight. She stared up at me. Then I leaned over and whispered, “Maybe we should pray for him.”

And, once again, I was reminded that she is growing up because she replied, “I already did.”

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