We headed over to the ribbon cutting.

Less than a mile away.

Through the neighborhood and onto the new road.

You could see the firetruck waiting to spray the kids from our house.

Teenagers in band uniforms, unloading their instruments, waiting to play some upbeat song.

I was on my bike, surrounded by a dozen kids. Almost all boys.

Sawyer and his friends. Ages ranging from 5 to 13.

They were talking about the free ice cream.

Apparently, that is the draw to get people to come out on a hot, lazy, school night.

My wife had the baby in the stroller.

She was walking ahead because she knew with me being on my bike I’d catch up in minutes.

A typical family heading out to enjoy the neighborhood.

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Except, we are different. We always are.

I was pulling my eight-year-old in one of those baby bike trailers.

I feel his weight resist against me with every pedal.

I tell myself this is good. I am getting exercise.

And I remind myself that we couldn’t do this a year ago. Cooper wouldn’t go to something like this.

Nope. A year ago, Kate and I would be watching from the front porch. Sending Sawyer off with the neighbors to go have fun.

We would be sad. We would feel isolated and guilty.

I feel none of that right now.

So this is good. It’s a good day I remind myself.

Except, all the other dads, my friends, are walking along with their wives. Pushing strollers. Talking fantasy football. Watching their sons and daughters bike and scooter ahead.

I hear their laughter over Barney singing about a dentist appointment.

I want you to know I don’t care. I don’t dwell.

The whole severe autism, nonverbal stuff, didn’t hit me as hard as it hit my wife.

For me, I see it just as who Cooper is. And I can’t change it.

But today, this is one of those moments.

My son is different than the other kids. And it feels really loud. Really noticeable.

As we all stand in a group, waiting for the ribbon to be cut, I see Sawyer standing next to the Mayor. I know he wants to hold the giant scissors. That is so Sawyer.

I see my wife with the baby. Smiling. Talking to a group of moms.

I am on my bike. Balancing it from tipping over. Cooper is still watching Barney. It is so loud. Gosh, I wish he’d wear headphones.

He is yelling at me to ride the bike. He doesn’t want to sit. He doesn’t really want to be here.

Every few minutes he hits himself in the head. My wife notices. She can hear his agitated scream through the drums and tuba. We make eye contact. I give her the look.

Our time is limited.

She comes right to Cooper and holds his hand. Hugs him. Sets a timer. Uses “first-then” language.

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And that buys us some time to be here. In our community. With friends and our other kids.

At every protest, people glance over. Their faces show only kindness.

They know us. They know our family. We are accepted completely and entirely.

We are all the same. Except, we are different.

People ask me all the time what it’s like to father a special needs child. And my advice for dads of newly diagnosed kids.

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I don’t have a complicated answer. That’s just not me.

All I can really say is . . . it’s just different.

We can go through the motions, be like other families, do what other families do, but it’s just different.

It’s being the only father pulling their 8-year-old son in a baby bike trailer.

I have accepted different. And most days it doesn’t bother me.

That’s acceptance. It’s a good place to be.

But some days, like today, different can feel really hard.

This post originally appeared on the author’s blog.

Jamie Swenson

Jamie Swenson runs his own insurance business in Minnesota and raises three busy boys with his wife Kate. When he’s not coaching sports or arguing with tiny versions of himself, he’s dreaming about sitting in a boat and fishing. You can follow his family's journey on their website, Finding Cooper's Voice, and on Facebook.