This is the year my daughter turned 15. She is about to start her sophomore year at a public high school after spending three years in a private school for kids with special needs. Maddie has Asperger’s Syndrome, what is now no longer considered a separate diagnosis from Autism. My fingers are crossed so hard it hurts. I want her to make friends, find her passion, somehow become more organized and motivated so that she lives up to her great potential. Mostly, though, I want her to get up in the morning even when she’s tired, and take showers at a reasonable interval so she doesn’t stink.

I lied before. This hasn’t been “the year that I’ve been waiting for.” Not really. I don’t think in years. Not until just now. Because life as the mother of a special needs child is best taken day by day.

I get up in the morning, hopeful but knowing exactly how it’s going to start. I will wake Maddie up gently, with a loving hug and a back rub, and now perhaps a tail-wagging puppy. I will tell her what time it is, place an outfit on her bed with a can of deodorant right on top so she’ll remember to use it. I leave, hoping but knowing this isn’t the end. I go to the kitchen and make her breakfast and then return to her room for another wakeup. She is unmoved, wrapped in her blanket like a caterpillar in a cocoon.

“Maddie,” I say gently, “it’s time to get up now.” Silence. “Maddie, it’s getting late, you need to get up.” Silence. “Maddie, please just make a sound so I know you’re awake.”

“Mmmm….” she finally utters.

“I made you some eggs. I have to go work on your lunch now,” I say, trying to hide the frustration in my voice. Maybe successfully, maybe not. “Please get up. Everything is on your bed. Don’t forget deodorant.”

I leave again, once again hoping and knowing. This goes on until a panic starts to set in. Most days my husband takes her to the van stop on his way to work. The van will be full of kids, waiting for Maddie to arrive because everybody else was on time. Maddie will be late. Again.

The scene almost always dissolves into mass chaos, with me running around, yelling at Maddie, often hastily shoving her shoes on her feet and tying them for her. Even though she’s a teenager and perfectly capable.

Her hair is unbrushed AGAIN. Most likely greasy because I couldn’t get her to shower the day before. Her dandruff is getting really bad. She isn’t wearing the pants I put out, but instead has chosen a pair she likes better that are smeared with dried avocado. Maybe she did her homework. Maybe she didn’t. Maybe she did it and it’s now under her bed somewhere. I am yelling, my husband is yelling. Somehow they get out the door, her breakfast in her hand. By 7:45 a.m. I feel emotionally depleted, defeated. Again. I didn’t cry, though. I don’t cry much anymore.

At least this is the story up until now. Tomorrow is the first day of her sophomore year, and this is the year I am determined to help her become more self-reliant, self-motivated, even a little more organized. I am counting on her school to hold her accountable in a way her sweet little private school did not. I also know that if we can’t achieve some success, the last resort is a therapeutic boarding school. I will have actually been defeated as a mom, now willing to give her to somebody else more qualified to teach her how to be a grownup. I don’t want to send my child away, but we have to do what’s best for her. For now, we are counting on this new environment to be successful.

So tomorrow is a new day. It’s a big day. But it is still just another day. I am hoping, but not knowing. Not yet.