At the end of the school year, the kids were invited to a bubble foam party. I thought, this will be perfect — bubbles are safe, fun, and textural, which seemed like something Titus would love. Plus, I knew his brother and friends would have a blast.

Surprisingly, Titus was hesitant to go. I convinced him to at least give it a try, thinking for sure once he got there, it would be a different story.

When we arrived, our first stop was food. I guided Titus to a table of kids eating pizza, told him who was near him, and then sat at a nearby table with other adults, keeping an eye on him if he needed me. It was a new, unfamiliar space — a garage crowded with tables, chairs, and a buffet. His cane wouldn’t have worked well there, so I was his sighted guide. Before long, he was done eating, and we made our way to the backyard.

The backyard was full of fun things: bubbles, a trampoline, a play fort, and a pool (off-limits at first). Parents gathered on the deck to chat while the kids dove right into play. I, on the other hand, was busy “showing” Titus the space, narrating where things were, and encouraging him to try the bubbles.

I eventually convinced him to put on his swimsuit “just in case.” As we wove through the crowd inside the house, I smiled and said hi to people, but my focus was locked on getting Titus safely through tight spaces and up the stairs to change in the house. Back outside, he chose to stand near the bubbles but not in them. So we stood there. I scooped up handfuls of foam for him to feel, encouraged him gently, but he stayed rooted. He didn’t want to join the kids laughing in the bubbles, but he didn’t want to try anything else either.

So we stood. I danced next to him to the music, trying to make it fun, while the rest of the parents relaxed together on the deck. My older son was having a blast, and I was glad for that, but inside I felt torn. I felt bad that Titus was overwhelmed. I felt bad that I couldn’t join the easy adult conversations just steps away.

This is the part that many don’t see. For most parents, parties are a chance to relax a little, chat with friends, and watch their kids run wild. For us, a new environment requires hands-on guidance, constant narration, and often, standing on the sidelines — literally — so our son doesn’t feel left out. It can feel isolating, not because we’re excluded, but because our role looks so different.

When both my husband and I are there, it’s easier. We can trade off, or at least have each other for company. But when it’s just me, I’m balancing everything at once — supporting Titus, keeping him safe, trying to encourage fun, and wishing I could slip into a conversation circle for a few minutes.

That day, the host noticed that Titus wasn’t engaging with the bubbles and kindly suggested the pool. Titus immediately agreed, and once he got in, everything shifted. He knows pools. He knows how to swim. He doesn’t need me as his eyes there. Other kids joined in, and suddenly I had a moment to sit, to breathe, to chat with another adult. It was such a relief — not because I don’t love being with Titus, but because I could finally experience the social part of the gathering, too.

This is what I want people to understand: it’s not that we don’t want to socialize. We do. But our version of parenting at parties looks different. We can’t just “let him go.” We’re guiding, supporting, and standing close by until the space becomes familiar. It’s not a pity story — it’s simply our reality. And when others recognize that and help create a space where Titus feels comfortable, it makes all the difference.