I should have mentioned it sooner. That thought crosses my
mind as I am asked a simple question: “Do you have kids?” I usually try to
work it in long before the question is asked. But for some reason it didn’t
work out that way today.
“Yes. Just one. A boy, 17.” I respond, wary of the topic. “Oh?
What grade is he in?” she asks. Scrambling to think, I say. “Tenth, No eleventh.
Yes eleventh.” Her quizzical look seems to say, “You don’t know what grade your
only child is in?”
No, I don’t. We don’t move from classroom to classroom or
get a new teacher each year. The school year isn’t punctuated by summer
vacation. A day rolls into a week and then a year with little change.
I try to segue to a new topic as she interjects the question of where Sam goes to school. “We don’t go to school locally,” I say finally. “Sam is has
autism and attends a wonderful school about an hour away.”
I catch the look of discomfort as it flits across her face. I
watch her hand briefly cover her mouth as if to prevent the words, “I am so
sorry” from spilling out. And there it is. The subtle reminder my child is
undesirable to some.
I want to tell her a part of me understands. When I first heard the word autism, I was scared. But that was so early on I barely remember the emotion. I don’t know if she would understand.
She hasn’t experienced the laughter. She hasn’t seen the victories. She doesn't know the joy or laughter. She doesn’t know the people we have met. She hasn’t had her heart melt as Sam looks deeply into her eyes
with an ever-sly grin. She doesn’t know the quiet peace of holding hands.
She doesn’t know our life.
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