The part you can’t see

Dear Judging Mom,

I’m sorry that we ruined your grocery trip. Really, I am. I never want to inconvenience others. Honestly, I lived a whole lot of years of my life carefully ducking around folks who appeared to be put out by the existence of my family. I thought I was being polite, making sure that my preschoolers whispered, and my toddler didn’t run, and my baby didn’t yank anything off the shelves. Then, one day, the Lord revealed to me that I was teaching my children, on some level, to apologize for normal, routine, childish things. That my constant care for the feelings and comfort of others was often at the cost of relationship with my own children. That I was taking a good thing (respectful public behavior) and making it an idol.

I thought I was cured the day I received a long, prudish glance from a woman in the produce aisle who was horrified at the giggly one upmanship game my elementary-aged children engaged in while racing to fill their respective bags with apples and pears. In the past, I would have shushed my children, reminded them not to bother those around them, and moved on, begging forgiveness with my eyes. This day, I smiled broadly and let the race go on. My kids weren’t bothering anything. They weren’t in the way. They weren’t shouting. They were actually being helpful. And inventive. And having fun.

I learned to be grateful for the new eyes God had given me to see that children are children, and in truth, their value lies largely in that: their ability to stun us with the beauty of a moment, the simplicity of a smile, and the joy of a discovery newly made. Thwarting that natural outpouring of happiness in the hopes of placating someone who wishes to pass through their life unencumbered by giggles and mild silliness is folly in and of itself. I’m not talking about kids running amok, opening every freezer case door and smearing their fingers over them. I’m not talking about screaming fits or toppling the paper towels. I’m talking about excited conversation, skipping alongside a cart, maybe even twirling with delight when the man at the deli counter offers you a slice of hard salami.

I’ve got this, I thought. Lesson learned.

And then …

And then, God gave us Phineas.

Suddenly, giggling fits by the ice cream were replaced by a child writhing, silently, as I tried desperately to lift him into the cart. Happy dances in the checkout line melted into whining and eventually shrieking and face-planting on the floor.

There’s no gracious way to excuse oneself from a special needs parenting emergency. Not at home, and especially not in public. It is the real deal, not for the faint of heart, a 911 of “this is really happening.” It’s ugly, it’s embarrassing and for many of us, it’s our everyday real life.

This is what you saw as we were making our way through the natural foods section. Phineas had had enough, as evidenced by the way he flung himself backwards in the bed of the cart as I dropped in half gallons of milk. He was in a mood, the cumulative temperatures of a rather warm week had zapped him, he had refused his lunch, and the he was done. Right at that moment, I had the gall to ask him if he wanted to help scoop the raw almonds from the bin and into the bag.  It could have gone one of two ways in that moment. He could have lit up, been distracted, and enjoyed the sensory experiences of hearing the clatter of the nuts on the plastic shovel, watching the almonds slither to the bottom of the crinkly bag, and feeling the weight grow as he added more and more to the pile. Then he could have guarded the bag all the way through check out and out the door, where any resulting unpleasantness would have erupted in the privacy of our van. That was scenario number one.

But, as you know, we got scenario number two. The mere suggestion of a task was overwhelming in that instant. Phineas flopped, boneless, into a pile, smashing his forehead into the wire of the cart, three cartons of too-cold milk, and a head of green leaf lettuce. He howled. He twisted away from my helping hands. He punched at the offending milk. He let loose his peculiar, distinctive yowl.

I can’t say what it looked like from where you stood. I can only say what I saw, and that is this: my reality.

Phineas has special needs. You can conjure a whole alphabet soup, if you wish, to define him, but just know this: he is who he is. He is cursed, on some level, with appearing neurotypical. Expectations are that he can handle a simple run in to the store to pick up staples for a meal.

Expectations are wrong.

What you thought you saw was an average, spoiled 4 year-old being catered to by his pushover mom. What really went down involved a severely delayed 7 and a half year-old navigating life alongside his tired but trying Momma.

So, yeah. It got kind of intense there for a minute. It got loud. It got ugly. I bet you didn’t want to see or hear that kind of mess as you tried to compare yogurt brands. I know I sure don’t. And yet …

It’s life. Real life. The kind of thing that you can try to avoid, or sweep under the rug, but will always, always find smacking you in the face whenever less-than perfect people are set loose in society. And by “less than perfect,” honey, I mean us. You and me. Because Phineas– and the countless kiddos like him– may not be what passes for neurotypical, but the rest of us have our own issues. And they are legion.

Seven years ago, I would have shrunk in horror when you shot me that “can’t you control him?” glance. Today, I just smiled and went about the business of being my boy’s Momma. Because I can’t control him. Heck, I can barely keep up with him some days. And seriously, if I could restore to him some of the brilliance generational sin and circumstance has robbed him of, I would do it. In a heartbeat.

But not for you, or for your comfort, or even to stop your withering glare. I would do it for my son. I would do it so that he understood– even if for just one stinking day— how to communicate, how to understand, and how to interact. I would do it so that I got to hear, for the first time, what went on in his mind when the wheels fall off and he just can’t hack life a second more without throwing off every emotion as it hits his neurotransmitters.

I would do it so that I could enjoy a round of utterly disruptive, completely inappropriate laughter, right there next to the Cheerios.

And I would rejoice.

So, again, I’m sorry we made a scene. I’m sorry you couldn’t concentrate on the task at hand for the four minutes it took for me to tuck my purse under my son’s head and help him close his eyes and shut out the stimuli for the moment. I really am sorry.

But I can’t say it won’t happen again. As a matter of fact, I guarantee you it will. So maybe … I don’t know … check the parking lot before you head in? My van’s easy to spot. If you happen to notice it hogging up a stall near the garden center doors, keep going. Because I am about the business of doing what’s right for my son first, and you second. If that’s offensive, well … I don’t know what to say.

I link up posts with these wonderful hosts: Diamonds in the Rough, Life in a Breakdown, Sunday Best Showcase, Teach Beside Me, Finishing Strong, Mama Moment Monday, The Modest Mom, Mama Moments Mondays, Monday’s Musings,Making Your Home Sing Monday, Playdates at the Wellspring, A Pinch of Joy, Titus 2sday, Titus 2 Tuesday, Growing Homemakers, Babies & Beyond, Teaching What is Good, Missional Call, Essential Things, Create With Joy, Hope in Every Season, For the Kids Fridays,  Preschool Creations, Pin Me Party, Learn & Link, Frugal Homeschool Friday, SHINE.