My family has evacuated our mountain community of Ojai, California, due to fast-moving brush fires that surround us. The following essay was written by me on Facebook for cathartic purposes, but it has been shared by many and is turning out to be instructive for some. I share it here on my blog to make it easier to share.
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I have released my flying monkeys. It happened in Port Hueneme to an unfortunate female in Ralph's. The first draft, which took forever to compose, got lost in cyberspace, so after mourning its loss, I have rewritten it. It's long. I give you fair warning, but I'm traumatized and I don't care. I think it's worth your time, though.
My son has autism. It makes him unique, different, and sometimes he does things that don't make sense to the casual onlooker. But when that onlooker is informed of his differences and still persists in her judgments, that's when the flying monkeys are released. I had no filter left. I am usually gracious, patient, and kind. I'm not sure I was today. I'm human.
After the last 12 hours I have had--oh,wait. Let's recap, actually--two days of stress deciding if we need to evacuate, coordinating the evacuation of seven--yes, seven--felines and seven rabbits, because there will be
#nopetleftbehind, being cooped up in a hotel room with animals and a highly agitated Daniel, suffering an emotional breakdown this morning, and ending up in urgent care with eustacian tube dysfunction (fluid behind my ear drum) and acute neck spasms, what I REALLY didn't need was a strange woman in Ralph's reprimanding my son for lightly tapping potato chip bags. Here begins the rant. Get ready. I may rant for a while.
When Daniel and I go to the store, it's not your run-of-the-mill grocery store trip. No. We do mail. We deliver mail, people. Autistics (yes, it's okay to use that word) have what's called rituals. Rituals. This means that when we go into our Vons, Daniel wants to take the cart, go down "the chicken aisle" to do his mail route. This consists of pushing the basket down the aisle and tapping the sale signs or the various items as a way of replicating opening a mailbox. This is my world. Do you think I enjoy this? No, I don't. Drives me crazy. But.I.do.it. Whatever works. Fellow Spectrum Moms, this is your pause to nod.
Let me set the scene. We have evacuated to Port Hueneme (Why-nee-me) Locals, pause to laugh. So we go to Ralph's. In the car, Daniel is complaining that he doesn't want to go. My brilliant husband says, "Ohhh...but you can deliver MAIL and it's a different route because of the fire evacuations. You're delivering mail in Port Hueneme (non-locals refer to phonetic reference for refresher) . He was on it. Game on! So we go. We didn't need much. Just a few things to take back to the hotel. This is a new store Daniel has never been to. Bliss. He retrieves a basket and immediately comments on how smooth the movement of the wheels are. He likes this basket. We walk behind him as he explores Ralph's on his tippy toes, commenting on how different it is from Vons. Joy spills forth from this special child. We find the chip aisle.
"Oh, Mommy, can I deliver mail here? It's my favorite."
He loves the way it sounds when he taps on a vacuum-packed bag of chips. Try it the next time you're at the grocery store
;) I was so depleted at this point, so tired, so done. Yesss, go for it. Deliver mail to all those potato chip bags, my beautiful son. And so he did.
I scanned the aisle for non-GMO, dye-free nacho cheese chips as Daniel delivers mail to the snacks. There's a woman walking down the aisle with her daughter. I smile, as I usually do, because I'm from Ojai, and she doesn't acknowledge it. Daniel is still lightly tapping bags. As she walks by him, she says, in a tone that I found to be slightly passive aggressive, "You're breaking all the chii-ips. You shouldn't do that."
Pause to think about what your response would be.
I'm sorry. What??? Well, now! Madam, you have chosen the wrong child--yes, CHILD, to address. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Mama Bear, and we need to have a conversation.
But I veer to the polite side of my personality and choose to be kind. "My son has autism. We....do...this. You know..mail delivery? It calms him."
This was met with, "But...he's breaking the chips."
Are you serious???? How do you know that? Have you ever tapped a bag of air-packed chips before? because, really, you should. In fact, that's why they air pack them, to prevent breakage. It's like a balloon. All the chips are jumping around like jumping jacks. If the seal was broken, that would be far different. Do you work for Frito-Lay? No. Clearly no, or you would know this random chip fact, Chip Lady.
I don't recall what came out of my mouth after that, but I think "Mind your own business," "Move on," and "Leave my son alone," were involved. She attempted to get the last word, which was met with epic failure, and...she..moved...on.
But that wasn't enough for Chip Lady. No. She chose to get in the same checkout line as us. More evidence of passive aggressive behavior. As we're chatting with the checker about her own traumatizing experience as a child of evacuating her home, I hear the same voice: "Oh, don't worry. I told the manager that he was hitting the potato chip bags."
And that's when I released the rest of the flying monkeys. Spinning around, I faced her. "Have some compassion," was met with, "It's not like you're the only one who evacuated." She said I was still "responsible" for him and shouldn't let him "hit" the bags. I don't remember what happened after that. It's all a blur, but it wasn't pretty.
I can't fix ignorant. I can't change someone who has no understanding, nor chooses to, of autism--and all disabilities--and how our unique children function, AND I DON'T CARE TO. My son has suffered a major trauma being displaced from his home, from his animals, his neighbors, all that he holds dear, and tapping lightly on chip bags was his safe harbor. Every time I eat a broken chip, I will think of her. In time, I won't be so hurt by it.
I mother my own child. I don't stick my nose into other mothers' business. I used to be that person in Target who would judge. I used to look down my nose at moms with "unruly" children and think, "get it together," just like Chip Lady. You don't know what that mom's life looks like. You just don't. If you choose to judge and be someone's personal tutor on parenting special needs children, then you deserve to have flying monkeys released on you. Good luck, my unlucky friend. Autism has taught me well. Now? I smile at that mother. I nod in understanding. I may even stop to say, "I get it. You're doing a great job." All mothers are heroines.
There is a greeting card hanging in my kitchen from a friend that reads, "A little grace goes a long way." I fully expect to return to my kitchen to behold that card once again. Grace was not--was not--extended to me today by that woman in Ralph's. I am trying to forgive her and I am struggling because I am broken and tired and exhausted and our home is still in jeopardy, but I will choose to extend grace and make a conscious effort to make no assumptions, and be understanding and kind. Did she know what Daniel said as we drove away? No.
"Does she like being a bully to people?"
"No, I don't think she does, actually. We should pray for her."
Yes. I am a Christian and I love the Lord, but I am no doormat and I will stand up for my child to anyone, anytime.
To be clear, Daniel and I will continue to deliver mail in the grocery store, and with gusto, when we return to our beloved Ojai, where people could care less about alleged broken chips and more about people's hearts, and I might even let him tap them a wee bit harder.
Don't judge. Don't make assumptions. If you do, it may just come at the worst possible time for someone.
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