By Katie Blackburn
@katiemblackburn

The night I went on my first blind date, I walked in my best friend Emily’s living room, ready to meet this guy she had been telling me about for weeks, wearing a black long sleeve shirt, flared jeans, and white Nike running shoes—the same Nike running shoes we had worked out in earlier that day.

(I wish I was making this up—you now know everything about my dire fashion sense that you need to).

Emily, being the sweet soul-sister, match-maker of a friend that she is, took one look at me and the ensemble I had planned, and simply said, “No.”

She marched me back to her room for something that would dress up my black shirt, handed me a long necklace and a cardigan, demanded I take off the running shoes, and, thankfully, let the jeans slide. 

I will skip to the end and tell you I ended up marrying the guy she set me up with, so I really am thankful she didn’t let me wear the Nike shoes that night. 

I’m so thankful for her no.

***

Seven years later, Alex and I are the parents of three precious kiddos: Harper, Cannon and Jordi. Harper is a 4-and-a-half-year-old spitfire —smart, funny, super social, the kind of first child that makes you think you’re a really good parent. Jordi, our youngest, is a chubby 1-year-old who is happy and goofy and has the biggest blue eyes you’ve ever seen. And Cannon, our middle child, has just turned three. He loves Dora the Explorer, swings, and cheerios. 

And he still doesn’t say anything.

He might acknowledge others in the room, but usually he doesn’t.

Every day he wears a pair of bright red Cars slippers, the ones that look like Lightning McQueen.

He’s wandered away a few times, and once, we couldn’t find him for nearly ten minutes. We were outside on the porch eating dinner, and he was right inside the door watching Dora the Explorer. At least that is what we thought. But when my husband went inside for more food, Cannon was nowhere to be found. Still to this day, my chest tightens when I recall the panic that arrested me in that moment. My husband left the house with no shoes, running as fast as he could in the direction he assumed Cannon must have gone, and found him a few blocks away in the kind arms of a young woman, who assumed this little boy who didn’t talk must have had parents looking for him. The professionals call this eloping, but let me tell you—when your two-and-a-half year old child goes missing, it is nothing like a wild weekend in Las Vegas. It was the scariest ten minutes of my life. 

***

Cannon has autism. Or, he is autistic. Chicken, or the egg? I’ve been in this special needs world for seven years and I still don’t know the right way to say this. People have cancer, they are not cancer. Maybe someday Cannon will be able to tell us what he prefers. 

In 2017, one of Cannon’s speech therapists told me about an Early Childhood Development conference a few hours away from our home. She said there was a two-day session on a certain therapy modality that could benefit Cannon in the future, and that his conference awarded a handful of scholarships to parents. She encouraged us to apply. So, you know, it wasn’t the sexiest date idea ever, but if we were chosen, it would mean two nights in a hotel for free. We thought, why not? 

A few weeks later, scholarship in hand, Alex and I took a seat at a table with mostly teachers and educators, learning more about how to understand our son, how to will his eyes to meet ours, how to play with him in a meaningful way, how to make him feel safe and loved. The presenter, her name was Rosemary, had been working with children with autism for twenty years. She showed us video after video of parents and therapists using her techniques with their children of all different ages and abilities. 

As much as the videos were meant to be helpful, as a mom navigating a fresh diagnosis for her precious child, all I could see were videos of our future —and they were not helpful. I didn’t want my little 3-year-old with autism to grow into a 10 or 15 or 25-year-old who still couldn’t tell me about his day, if his stomach hurt, if someone was mean to him. I wanted to learn how to get him out of this phase, not be reminded that in all likelihood, he never would be.

About halfway through the final day of the seminar and feeling dizzy with information, my phone lit up with a text from Emily, who, at this point, lived on the other side of the country. She asked how the conference was going, and I told her the truth—it was hard. Yes, we felt motivated to give Cannon our best and yes, there were some practical things we could improve, and yes, it was good that we came. But through tears, I typed into the phone these very words: Emily, I don’t think we can do this.

What I was really telling her was that I was afraid. I was afraid Cannon would run away again, that he would never be able to say “mom,” that he would hurt himself, that our family would never be invited anywhere, that people would think I’m a bad parent—that people would think he is a bad kid. 

All I felt was fear. And fear tells you, “No, you can’t do this.” 

Emily, without missing a beat, sent back a message in capital letters that simply said: YES YOU CAN. Then she added: “You are doing an incredible job with a very tough assignment. I’m going to tell you can do it for the rest of your life.” 

Just a few weeks later, when she was back in town here in Spokane, I got another text message that said “little something on your front porch!”

I opened the door to see a brown box with a Nike swoosh on the side, and when I opened it up, there was a pair of gray nike running shoes inside. And written inside the lid of the box was this note: a little reminder that we are committed to running the hard miles of life with you.

I began one of the best chapters of my life with a “no” to one pair of shoes. I was given fresh faith for a different chapter with a “yes” and another pair. 

What a gift that when someone knows you and has your best interest at heart and loves you enough to tell you “no”, you end up really believing them when they say “yes.” 

Photo by Ashlee Gadd.