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“You’ll miss this, one day,” says the grocery store clerk as she looks in my eyes with compassion and seriousness.

“He’s been very hard lately,” I reply as I look into her eyes, and then at Brady as he makes his loud stimming sounds.

“MOOOOMMMMMMEEEEEE,” he squeals with a smile on his face.

“He’s on the autism spectrum,” I quietly tell her.

Five minutes ago, I asked him to go get napkins. It was the one thing we forgot to grab. Now, he has given me three different types of napkins, a small race car, and an extra big Rice Krispy treat.

“Brady, please put back the other things. I’ll take this napkin package. Put the other stuff back and come meet me here,” I say calmly.

Although he’s in a good mood, he’s also in an attention-seeking mood. He puts the Rice Krispy treat, wrapper still on, into his mouth and says in his high-pitched squealy voice: “MOOOOMMMMMEEEEEE!”

He has said “MOOOOOOMMMMMEEEEEE!” about 100 times in the last hour.

I am tired. Not just from the day but from the past few months of spending hours on the phone, writing countless emails – trying to get Brady help. I am weary from the frequent, persistent emotional outbursts, and the “aggressive behaviors” (as his school labels and documents them).

I am worn down and concerned about how this story will turn itself around. When will he stop feeling so angry about school, about his clothes, about his lunchbox, about his siblings’ reactions to him, about nearly everything around him?

He’s trapped in a negative mindset. He’s stuck and I am reaching for all the possible resources available to help him. To untangle his distressed brain.

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“He’ll be off to college in no time, and you’ll miss this. Trust me. It all goes by too fast,” the grocery store clerk kindly explains as she again locks her eyes to mine.

I shift my mind and say without thinking, “I don’t know.”

That’s how it is for special needs parents. We don’t know.

We don’t know when things will get better. Heck, we don’t even know how the day will roll out, hour by hour. We wake up and a few hours later we may get news that our kid has thrown his crutches or crushed a classroom clock in an act of impulsive defiance.

Emails randomly pop up: “Please call as soon as you have a moment, Ms. Vaughn. We have Brady in the office.”

We don’t know when life will take a nosedive with maladaptive behaviors sprouting up like weeds that were once mostly under control.

When I am in the trenches with Brady digging to find some support ropes to help us out, it is hard to think: “I’m going to miss this someday.”

Because right now, I miss the child who was not so unhappy and terribly unregulated. I miss the child whose infectious laughter made everyone smile. I miss the child who could easily become immersed in an art project he had dreamt up in his own wonderfully creative mind.

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His mind. It is waging a small war as hormones seem to be the perfect fertilizer for more difficult outbursts, complete with compulsive behaviors and irritability. What is really happening?

In a 2013 study, the autistic children evaluated showed only modest progress in executive functions such as short-term memory and self-control during adolescence. In neurotypical kids, these skills typically develop rapidly. Is this why my son exhibits unique social, cognitive, and emotional challenges as compared to his two teenage siblings?

Unfortunately, the scientific community has paid little attention to how puberty affects autistic teenagers. There are very few studies about the challenges autistic young people face as they transition to adulthood, according to the Interagency Autism Coordinating Committee report.

A 2006 study showed that 72% of the 109 autistic youth had depression, anxiety, or some other mental health condition. Autistic teenagers are also at a greater risk of seizures and cognitive setbacks.

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She looked at me again – the grocery clerk– and replied: “Mom, he’s okay. Look at him.”

I glanced back seeing that Brady was balancing items on the cart. He hadn’t put the items back like I had asked, but he wasn’t doing anything dangerous either.

“Yes, he is fine right now. He is happy. At least, right now, he is happy,” I respond.

After we walk down the grocery aisle to put the extra items away, we walk out to the car together and I think:

She’s wrong–

I won’t miss his outbursts, the meetings at his school about strategies to curb his aggressive behaviors, his unkind words to his siblings, his crying, yelling, and throwing things.

No, I will not miss those things.

But also, yes.

Yes, should he live independently someday, I will miss the individual who lives underneath all that mess. The one who is so innocent and forever lovable.

And uncovering and freeing this person is what motivates me to persistently search for those ropes in the trenches.