When Little Dude started 2nd grade this year & wanted to use the same backpack he’d been using since kindergarten, I was concerned. With its light blue background and assortment of colorful airplanes, trains, and trucks, it was adorable, but it also skewed younger than the comic book heroes and science- or sports-oriented themes so many boys his age seemed to favor. And, frankly, I was afraid that second grade would be the year other kids would make fun of him for what they deemed a “babyish” pattern.

I’m always afraid of such things. That’s part of being a mom, but more so, I think it’s part of being an autism mom. A mom to a kid with interests and tastes that don’t always match up with his peers. A mom to a kid who, mercifully, doesn’t always understand when other people aren’t being nice but who, every so often, does understand it with heartbreaking clarity. So, when my little guy rebuffed my offers to buy his new backpack in a different pattern, I did what any self-respecting mom would do. I resorted to begging.”Please, baby,” (because calling your kid “baby” is the most effective way to get him to feel like a big kid?) I said, “you know I’ll let you use whichever backpack you want. But are you going to be okay if another kid tells you it’s silly?”

“It doesn’t matter if other kids like it, Mama. It makes me happy.”

Those words stopped me. Yes, I still bought two other backpacks in more “big kid” themes, but I didn’t beg him to use them. Why should I? His backpack was his backpack, he liked it, and that was enough. The spare backpacks were simply there in case the day came when liking his current one wasn’t enough. Because that’s what moms do. We prepare.

But halfway through the school year, those two spare backpacks are still in the closet. One — the Minecraft one — was carried once. The last day of school before break required a lot of “stuff” in the form of gifts for teachers, a stuffed animal and blanket for a party, and sneakers to be worn when he changed out of his snow boots, and the extra space in the Minecraft backpack came in handy. If a kid has commented on the usual backpack, Little Dude hasn’t mentioned it. I even stopped asking him each Sunday evening which backpack he wanted me to pack for Monday morning. The answer is trains. It’s always trains. And that’s okay.

And in the end, I haven’t just learned that maybe kids aren’t quite as cruel as I thought or that maybe my kid is a little tougher than I realize. I’ve learned that we should all have a little backpack with colorful planes, trains, and trucks. We all have that thing that brings us joy but that we hide a little because we’re afraid people will judge it. I see it every day. Women who think they can’t wear boldly printed leggings because they’re too old. Men who don’t want to admit that they get sucked into the world of “My Little Pony.” Readers who detest almost everything critics adore but can — and will — read over fifty romance or science fiction novels per year. Authors who have written multiple books but don’t think of themselves as real authors because those books aren’t on the shelves at B&N. Writers who have been told over and over that they aren’t really writers because they don’t sit down every day and write. And, really, why should we care? Why shouldn’t we just do our thing? Because if it makes us happy — and doesn’t hurt others — isn’t that what matters? My Little Dude thinks so. I think so.

And by the way, if you’re wondering… my backpack? I have a few. Bold printed leggings, sappy rom-com movies, romance novels (especially historical romance), and teen drama on TV. What’s yours?