When People See Our Autism

Yesterday, I had the rare opportunity to watch my son interact with the world outside of our home and therapy.

But even more interestingly, I was able to watch the world react to him.

Typically, people, strangers, onlookers, observe him with curiosity. Often with kindness. And caution. Sometimes with a little judgement. And even a little fear.

That last one kills me.

One of the hardest things to process, understand and feel as a mom is seeing people be afraid of my child.

The little boy who cries when someone looks at him the wrong way. The one who still requests to have his owies kissed.

But, well, he’s 9 now. He’s big. 4 foot 4 inches to be exact.

People see a boy who will soon be a tween. They don’t understand.

And unfortunately, I can’t educate everyone. It just is what it is I guess.

Yesterday, we visited the doctor. Children’s Hospital to be specific.

We have been there a dozen times before. His Dad, Cooper and me.

We are regulars as they say.

We know that it will take 20 minutes to park in that ridiculous ramp of theirs. And that Cooper will get very anxious as we go up and up and up. And eventually his dad and I will get anxious too because why should it take 20 minutes to park.

I know that before we even put the car in park, Cooper will be nervous about the elevator ride. See, he loves elevators. He’s also scared of elevators. We call that anxiety in our world.

I know that once we get inside, we will let a few elevator doors open and close without getting on because they will be too full. Or there will be too many babies or seniors and I know we need to choose our battles.

I also know that Cooper will get very nervous once inside the elevator and one of us will have to hold him. Only he is 9 years old now so holding him isn’t quite as easy as it used to be. I more so wedge him up on my knee and let him bury his head into my chest while he covers his ears.

I know that he will burst off the elevator like he’s sprinting a marathon. I know his dad or I will try and contain him. But he’s excited. And he’s nervous.

I know that he will have a very hard time while I check him in. I know he will have to stand by me though, never letting me out of his sight. I know his Dad will try and negotiate him away so I can talk, most likely after getting a look from me. But it won’t work.

I know that while I’m confirming our address and phone numbers he will drop to the ground at least once. He will wiggle his way in between my legs, flailing and laughing.

I know by this point everyone in the waiting room will be staring at us. I know people with small children will be backing away, as they should be.

I know the person checking us in will lean over the desk to see what is happening.

I know while he’s on the ground he will put random things in his mouth. And people will stare. Some will gasp.

I know once we are checked in, he will run. I know I will have to eventually chase. He likes to explore. Honestly, that’s all he is doing. But he is fast. And clumsy. He will touch every chair. And go through the magazines.

He will stack the books in a pile, bring them to the ground, and line them up.

He will look for sounds. See, he loves sounds. He will hit his hand repeatedly on the window before tapping the metal of a vent. All to hear the sound. He will clap and look at me to clap too.

I know that he will probably try and take brochures. And pamphlets. And business cards. That is my Cooper.

I know he will use my phone and his dad’s phone. I know we won’t be able to get the WIFI to work on his Kindle and my husband and I will snap at each other.

I know once in the room he will spin the doctor’s chair and tap on the keyboard.

He will rip the paper off the table. He really hates the crinkle of that paper.

He will kick the garbage can just to hear the rustle of the plastic bag.

He will fall to the ground. He will have me hold him.

He will scream. Loudly. Blood curdling. Only to laugh seconds later.

I know at one point a nurse will jump. Or flinch. I know a doctor may pull away. Frightened by his movements.

I know that more often than not, a sigh of relief is taken after we leave.

I know because I’ve heard it.

This is just our normal. Honestly, not much phases us as his parents anymore. Because we know he is communicating. And he is trying his hardest.

We also know that being outside of his world is hard. So we just keep doing and explaining and anticipating in order to stay one step ahead.

This is just our life. And his too.

We take it in stride, but I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t lonely at times.

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Finding Cooper’s Voice is a safe, humorous, caring and honest place where you can celebrate the unique challenges of parenting a special needs child. Because you’re never alone in the struggles you face. And once you find your people, your allies, your village….all the challenges and struggles will seem just a little bit easier. Welcome to our journey. You can also follow us on Facebook, subscribe for exclusive videos, and subscribe to our newsletter.