Even with my son’s graduation three hours away, I couldn’t resist the temptation to do yardwork Saturday afternoon. As I worked in the sunshine, a memory surfaced. In his toddler years, Michael would pull out all the little plastic garden tags from my gardens and flower beds. Jeff thought it was hilarious, although I was slightly less amused. I needed those so I could remember which tomatoes I’d planted where, and what variety that yarrow was so I could sound knowledgeable when one of my gardening friends asked. Alas. My young son’s shenanigans left me to only guess at what was growing.

The garden tag shtick was part of a larger pattern. In the grocery store, he would collect coupons from every coupon dispensers throughout the store. In the kitchen, he emptied my shelves and lined all the pots and pans up across the kitchen. In the toy room, he would do the same with matchbox cars, Legos, blocks, or any other grouping, laying on the ground to painstakingly assure they were parallel. I didn’t know then that this was a classic sign of autism.

I wouldn’t have suspected a disability in his toddler years. He seemed smart enough — diabolically clever at times actually — interested in a variety of things, choosy but friendly with people — just not very talkative. Personally I thought it was kind of funny and impressive the way he repeated lines from cartoon shows and movies to communicate. He made his needs known. And when he did start to talk he used meaty four and five syllable words. For example, one spring in first or second grade, after seeing the third line of geese flying overhead in one morning, he suggested we might be witnessing a “world-wide goose domination.” For the most part, he was a fun kid.

But the world is unkind to those who break the mold. School was a struggle. Writing and socializing were Herculean tasks. Since he was my first child, family members and well meaning friends had all kinds of “helpful” advice. My favorite was the friend who, noting that Michael still wasn’t using full sentences at age 5, shared with me that she “found it useful to talk with her boys.” Seriously, lady. I quit my career to stay home with the kids. Do you really think I ignore them all day?

When Michael was first diagnosed I read all the books I could find on autism. Most of them were less than helpful. They suggested tapping into resources that just don’t exist in the middle of rural Ohio. Other suggestions hinged on me becoming a supermom, never working a full-time job again, and being friendly and outgoing enough to make up for my child’s quirks. I am none of these things. For a while, I tried to be. But how can you encourage your kids to be who they are, when you’re not true to your own nature?

By the grace of modern medicine and many helping hands — teachers, counselors, friends, understanding relatives, inspiring fellow parents — we have made it through high school. Michael received no awards, no honor cords, and barely passed his last math class. But he aced graphic arts, and produced some fine work in his last writing class (which focused on gaming). He had a few friends to invite to his small graduation gathering. It is enough. I am immensely proud of his accomplishments and perseverance, and enamored of his good nature and offbeat sense of humor.

Next year, Michael will enroll in a work assistance program through Opportunities for Ohioans with Disabilities and will take a few classes at the high school which he wasn’t able to try during his regular four years. Will he like computer coding? Will he ever be able to support himself? Can he get his driver’s license? Will he have friends now that school is done? I don’t know. I’m left to guess at what his future will look like. There are no tags, no instruction books.

But there never are.