“Only Emma blows out the candles,” Brooke told me on the way to the birthday party. “We will sing to her and I will cover my ears and only Emma will blow out the candles.”

Brooke couldn’t have been happier to be heading to the local candlepin bowling alley to celebrate her friend’s birthday.

"Only Emma blows out the candles,” she said again (and again).

She couldn’t wait to bowl. As soon as we walked in the door she made a beeline for a lane populated by two older couples. I reined her back in to trade in her shoes and to find the party. Once outfitted with her Oh Dear Lord this is frighteningly unsanitary bowling shoes, we made our way back down to the alley and found the birthday girl. She directed Brooke to her assigned lane.

We settled into her lane and I handed her a ball. She unceremoniously tossed it in the general direction of the pins. It rolled slowly into the gutter, but she was too busy getting another ball to notice. She happily repeated the process two more times before stepping out of the way. 

She was happy as a clam bowling. She took turns with her lane mate, stayed (mostly) out of the way when it wasn’t her turn and seemed to be having a great time. A couple of times she even managed to knock down a pin or two, but it was clear from the way that she approached each ball that it wasn’t really the point for her. Turn after turn, I tried to keep her attention on the ball, but once it was out of her hands, she made it pretty plain that she had no further interest in its fate.

After about fifteen minutes, she’d lost interest completely and decided that the water fountain was far more interesting than bowling. I brought her to the fountain and then followed her as she wandered the perimeter of the alley. Eventually she settled on a bench removed a bit from the action below. I joined her and we watched the party from a comfortable distance.

We played a game of sorts. She wiggled like a worm over the bench and cracked herself up as she plopped down on the other side. She did it again. And again. And again. She was having a ball. She said, “I would do it on TV!” so I took a little video of her on my phone and we watched it together. She laughed that great belly laugh – the one that comes from somewhere deep and heals my soul. She let me squeeze her. She was having fun. I asked her if she wanted to go back and join her friends and got a definitive, ‘Not yet.’

I looked over at the party. Most of the kids were happily bowling away. One sat pouting alone on a bench just like ours. A couple of others were starting to peter out. I asked Brooke yet again if she’d like to do some more bowling. “No,” she said, just as she had every other time I’d asked. “I would just have cake.”

I told her it wasn’t time for cake yet and tried to gently prompt her back to her friends. Truth be told, I didn’t push very hard. The bowling alley was noisy and chaotic. The lighting was odd and somewhat disconcerting. The game itself had been confusing for her and had clearly lost its luster.

I took a good hard look at the other kids. They were barely interacting with one another. I doubted that anyone other than Brooke’s one lane mate had really even noticed that she wasn’t there. I checked my gut and decided that her absence didn’t feel disrespectful to the birthday girl.

There are times to push - lots of them. And I do, constantly. This just didn’t feel like one of them.

When it was time for cake, we re-joined the revelers and headed upstairs to the party room. I fell in next to Clara's mom. We shared the autism mom wink. The ‘hang in there, girl – this hell we call ‘fun’ is almost over’ wink.

For years we’ve found each other at these things – comrades in arms - wading through seas of icing and curly ribbon while trying to keep our kids calm/ on track/ playing/ participating/ interacting. Keeping them from melting down/ freaking out/ getting scared/ running away. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it worked really well. Sometimes it didn't work at all.

She looked at me with eyes full of concern. “Are you OK?” she asked quietly. She looked very serious.

“Oh, sure,” I said, realizing that she must have noticed that Brooke had been pretty removed from the party. “She’s fine. It was just too much for her so we pulled back for a little while. She’s good though.”

My answer did nothing to change the look on her face. “But what about YOU? Are YOU OK?”

I laughed. Well I'll be damned. She’s known me a long time. And her concern was showing me what I hadn't been able to see.

Last year, I would have been a wreck had a party gone exactly the same way this one had. My baby’s not participating. She’s not talking to anyone. They’re all staring at her. She’ll never have friends. We're not doing enough. The sky is falling. I would have come home from a party like that in tears.

I took a quick self-inventory. Was I kidding myself? Was I in denial? Was it going to hit me on a tape delay after we got home? Nope. Nope. And nope. I was fine – really, truly, authentically fine. I stood up just a little straighter and said as much. “I’m good.”

“Well good on you,” she said with a smirk. “Look at you all grow-ed up.”

We chuckled together. “Yeah,” I said, “look at me.” I took a deep breath and stepped in to intervene just before Brooke stuck her fork into another little girl’s slice of cake. I was still smiling.

There are situations that simply don’t work well for my girl. Hell, there are situations that don’t work well for all of us. None of us has to conquer every single one of them every time.

She had fun. She bowled for God's sake. She was there for the birthday girl. She sang and - for the first time ever - she didn’t even cover her ears.  With a little prompting, she said thank you to everyone on the way out. She was kind and respectful and hugged the birthday girl as she left. She may not have had the same fun as the other kids, but she had fun in her own way.

All in all, I’d call that a pretty damned successful party.

Yup, look at me. All grow-ed up.

Jess can be found at Diary of a Mom