Seeing Ezra, Seeing Myself

A few weeks ago I was contacted via my blog by a publicist for Seal Press. She wanted to know if I was interested in reading Seeing Ezra by Kerry Cohen, which is a book about a mom and her son with autism. I was hesitant at first. Is this legit? Why me? No one except Rainbowmummy has ever really contacted me via my blog email address. I've gotten a few other random emails and a request for an interview, but that's it. I decided to ignore the interview request when the interviewer's questions had some grammatical errors I could not ignore. Who's neurotypical now???

Anyway, I checked in with some friends who know a little something about publishing and they assured me the request was normal and just another method to get more publicity for the book. I did some checking of my own and decided to go for it.

The book arrived a few days later. I was excited to dig into it. But I was also scared. Without knowing too much about the author prior to this, I was scared I might be getting into a Jenny McCarthy type situation. I can't read that! I can't promote that nonsense. I'm a mom who wants to let my own son just be, no cure required. Sure we go to therapy, but at the end of the day, all I'm really trying to teach him is how to deal with the world around him expecting him to be someone else.

So I cautiously started the book.

Let me just say, I love this woman. She is me, but smarter. Funnier. I love how she mentions her friend's fabulous rack in the acknowledgements. That is so something I would do. Every experience she recalls, I have experienced in much the same way. Even our birthing experiences, complete with a UTI, are similar. At one point in the book she remarks how she wishes she could say, but ultimately doesn't, "Do you have a child who's autistic? No? Then shut the fuck up you frizzy haired bitch." How many times have those words been on the tip of my tongue? Too many. Far too many.

So I read.

And then I have to take a break. Because reading her words is drawing me in and taking me to a place I haven't been in a long time. A place of self doubt. A place where my marriage wasn't working. A place where I had less confidence in myself as a mom of a child with special needs. A place I didn't realize I'd really, truly moved beyond. A place where I was vulnerable. I generally love this skill in an author, but not when it's so close to home.

After a few days, I come back to the book and finish it in one sitting. And I'm so glad I did. Because Kerry Cohen's words remind me that I'm not alone. That there are other moms like me. Moms who just want the best for their sons (and daughters) on the spectrum. Moms who feel like random strangers on the street are constantly judging. Always judging. Always with suggestions. There are moms out there who don't want to cure, fix, or otherwise rewire their child. The Boy is The Boy. Ezra is Ezra. I can see that now.