“I couldn’t do what you do,” she says while shifting her toddler from one hip to the other. Her hair is up in a messy bun and there might be spit-up or this morning breakfast on her shirt. I recognize this mama, because I am also this mama. We have the same unwashed hair, the same I-sit-on-the-floor-most-of-the-day outfit on repeat, and the same iron grip on our phones – our lifeline to the outside world. We commiserate over the challenges of motherhood and parenting, all while watching our older kids in swim lessons. Mine screams through the lesson, hers swims.

Yet, in just a few seconds, with a few well-meaning words, we are no longer the same.

“I couldn’t do what you do.” she says again.

I smile and nod, politely, but inside, the comment knocks the winds out me.

My smile and my blushing might seem like I am grateful for some sort of recognition, or like I am just uncomfortable accepting a compliment. But perhaps it is discomfort at having to be polite because, though I know she means well, comments like these sting.

When my son was first diagnosed with Autism, a close family member reacted to our news by saying “I would throw myself off the deck if that happened to us”. It wasn’t said to me, but thanks to the gossip web of family, the comment got back to me.

Do people somehow think that a show of pity is showing kindness to me? Like somehow recognizing that they couldn’t live my life, they make my life a battlefield and me a brave warrior. But I am not fighting a battle. My son is not a war.

Do people think that by knocking down the worthiness of my son (his worthiness of having a parent who would not jump off a deck because of him), that is somehow building me up? I ask this question because I can’t imagine any other reason someone would to say something like that, unless they were truly wishing away a child like mine.

And that is just it.

Bundled up in those “I couldn’t do what you do” or “I don’t know how you do it” sentiments is relief. Relief that you don’t have to do what (you perceive) I do. Relief that you don’t have a (freaking awesome) kid like mine. Those comments are hurtful because they appear to be a compliment for me, but they are really the expression of fear and uneasiness coated in sympathy and pity.

Maybe other parents take it as a compliment. But that is not how I see it. That is not how I feel it.

I’m a loving, trying-my-hardest mama, just like you.

My son is a sweet, worthy-of-love child, just like yours.

And that is just it.