Heading into the holiday season, I’m already thinking about the invitations. Holiday parties, small gatherings, Friendsgivings. So many opportunities to spend time with people we care about.
And so many decisions about what we can manage.
This time of year can be especially hard. I want to say yes. I want to see our friends, make memories, and include our children in the things other kids their ages are doing. But every invitation comes with considerations that aren’t always obvious to the person extending it.
When I decline, I often hear some version of the same thing.
“Oh, just come! He’ll be fine. You’ll have plenty of help here.”
I know these words are meant to reassure me. People want us there, and I want to spend time with them, too.
But I’m thinking about what being there will actually look like.
Often, it means following my son around a home that isn’t safe for him. Starting conversations I won’t get to finish. Trying to anticipate what he needs while keeping him out of things he isn’t supposed to touch.
And if there’s a dog there? Forget about it. Past aggressive encounters with dogs have left my little guy absolutely terrified of them. That’s another layer of fear for him and another thing I have to be aware of throughout the visit.
For my son, it can mean spending time in a space he can’t comfortably access or settle into. He becomes dysregulated. He gets into things. He ends up “in trouble” in an environment that was difficult for him to navigate from the start.
“You’ll have help” sounds reassuring. But I can still spend the whole visit on alert and leave feeling like I barely spent time with anyone.
Then there’s the other suggestion.
“Just get a sitter.”
We have two or three people we trust to leave our son with. If none of them are available, we’re out of luck. Finding someone else isn’t a simple adjustment to our plans. We need to feel confident that the person caring for him understands his needs and can keep him safe and comfortable.
An invitation doesn’t create that availability, no matter how much we’d like a night out.
And we also have our daughter to consider.
She is a social butterfly. She loves all things party. The gatherings that can be so difficult for her brother are often exactly where she wants to be.
I don’t want her to keep missing things she loves because attending is difficult for him. Her excitement matters. Her friendships and experiences matter. When we’re deciding what our family can manage, her needs have to be part of that decision, too.
That adds another pull. How do we give her opportunities to enjoy herself while respecting what her brother can handle? Can we find a way for her to attend even when he can’t? What’s possible with the support and energy we actually have?
I don’t have a solution that works for every invitation. I do know that neither child is responsible for making this easy. We’re the parents, trying to make room for two children who can need very different things.
So lately, I’ve been saying no more often. I’m getting more comfortable saying, “We won’t be able to make it,” without searching for an excuse that will make our absence easier for someone else to accept.
But I worry about what happens if I keep saying it.
Will the invitations slow down? Will people eventually assume we won’t come and stop asking?
I worry about our world getting smaller. I wonder whether, by sitting something out, my son is missing an opportunity to get used to the things other kids his age are doing. I want him to have experiences, discover things he enjoys, and have chances to surprise me.
Sometimes going could be fun. Sometimes it could be a great learning opportunity. I don’t always know ahead of time.
That’s the push and pull. Meeting my son where he is. Making room for my daughter to be who she is. Giving myself some grace for where I am. Figuring out when we have enough room to try something that might be hard—and when we’ve already had enough hard for one day.
The holidays bring that tension into sharper focus. There are more invitations, more traditions, and more things I want us to be part of. Saying no can feel especially sad when it means missing people we don’t often get to see.
I’m still working out how to make those decisions. I can feel confident that declining is right for us and still feel sad about missing out. I can want to protect our time and energy and still want to be included.
I think what I’ve changed my mind about is how much other people’s disappointment should weigh in that decision.
I used to feel I needed a reason they would agree with. Now, I’m trying to trust what I know about my children and what I know about myself, even when someone says, “Oh, just come.”
Some days, we’ll try. Some days, we might find a way for some of us to go. Some days, we won’t be able to make it.
I hope you’ll keep asking.