6 years ago…

I meant to share this on Friday the 13th.

But life had other plans.

Lice. Back-to-back birthday parties. The kind of week that leaves you staring at your phone thinking, “I’ll post it tomorrow,” only for something else to come up.

But this story didn’t change just because I waited a few days.

So I’m sharing it now.

Six years ago, on a Friday the 13th, I went into labor with my first baby.

I was home between work trips watching the Today Show. Mandy Moore was the guest. Everyone was joking about elbow bumps instead of handshakes because of this new virus people were starting to talk about.

And then I felt the first contractions.

My partner was still at work. The contractions were irregular, so I did what any rational 34-year-old woman does when she realizes she might be going into labor alone—I called my mom and drove myself to her house. She did what moms do best: made sure I ate something, got a little sleep, and worried a little less. Contractions fizzled until the next morning.

While I was there, our phones lit up. A global alert. The coronavirus had officially been declared a pandemic. The world was changing. So was mine. I just didn’t know how much.

People love to talk about candles and playlists and peaceful birth plans. Mine felt a lot more primal than peaceful. JZB was terrified I was going to have the baby at home, because I kept stalling.

I knew WAY too much about labor and what could go wrong. Add the pandemic — I was terrified.

I had to be convinced to go to the hospital. Hubs even called my mom on me! With tears in my eyes, a cup of ice with the perfectly sized spoon (IYKYK) in my hand, she finally convinced me to get in the car.

Hours later, after 8 years of infertility struggles, my rainbow baby was born. I remember looking at him shortly after, noticing something about his eye contact. Most babies are sleepy after birth. This baby never slept. Something was different. I could feel it but I shrugged it off

Twelve hours after he was born, the hospital locked down. The world shut down after that. And for a long time, it was mostly just the two of us.

I had read the books. I had my nursing background + some developmental psychology knowledge. I was watching for milestones, tracking development, doing everything “right.” I even subscribe to the then ‘new ‘ and boujee toy subscription “Lovevery” — interest was mid at best at least compared to the coveted ceiling fan.

I also had voices in my ear:

My mom: “Babies don’t read the books, Christie.”

My in-laws: “… did all those things when he was a baby too.”

Every concern I raised got dismissed. Every observation I made got explained away.

And with no playgroups, no other moms to compare notes with, no casual “is this normal?” conversations—I started to doubt myself.

Maybe I was wrong about that moment in the hospital. Maybe I was overthinking it.

Then I had my second baby. Also during the pandemic (2021). That’s when everything became clear. Suddenly I had a reference point. Real, concrete differences I could see.

I brought those comparisons to the pediatrician. Not once. Not twice. Three times (over 12+ months). And three times I was told: “Wait and see.”

Even with my nursing background. Even with clear differences between my two children. Even with that gut feeling I’d had from day one.

“Wait and see.”

Things came to a head in the fall of 2022, I couldn’t wait anymore. I made about a dozen calls until someone helped me. I pled with the county’s Early Intervention Program to see us in person at the earliest availability .

All those concerns I’d raised? They were valid. All those observations I’d made? They were real. That moment in the hospital when I not iced something about his eye contact? I was right.

The part that’s hardest to admit…My in-laws were right too!

My husband had done those same things as a baby. Because he’s also autistic. He just went his whole life undiagnosed until after our son was. They weren’t dismissing me. They were giving me a clue. We just didn’t know it then.

Back then, I wasn’t sharing any of this.

Not the doubt.
Not the dismissals.
Not the isolation.
Not that first moment in the hospital when I knew something was different.
Not being told “wait and see” three times.

I didn’t have the words. I didn’t have the energy. I didn’t have the space. And partly because that’s how my brain works — I don’t always process things in real time.

I live through them first. I ruminate. I make sense of them later.

And then later—sometimes much later—I come back and share it in hopes you can learn from my missteps. In hindsight, I wish I had trusted myself sooner but I have to let that go and forgive myself.