Acceptance

I saw a posting on the bulletin board at Starbucks a while back. It was an add for a 'mothers of Autistic kids' club. I grabbed it and read it once I got to my car.

The women on the cover had big smiling faces and, of course, there were no pictures of their children. It boasted a catchy phrase that went something like this, "The doctors recommend institutions, we're pushing for Harvard instead!!" These women, it went on to say, don't talk about Autism. They speak only of their children's strengths. Yeah. That's actually what it said. Like Autism is, somehow, a weakness. A "way of being" that needs to be hidden or entirely ignored.

I had to go to the office of the developmental pediatrician a few weeks ago to pick up some documentation regarding Isabel's "feeding disorder" which is happening as a result of her Autism. We had to wait in the waiting room for a few minutes while they got the paperwork ready. Waiting there, also, was this women and her daughter.

The daughter was about six years old (just a year older than Isabel) and it became clear to me, after just a few minutes, that her daughter was Autistic as well. She was sooo cute with her brown curly hair, little glasses, and little pink polo shirt. And she had that Autistic smile that says, "I don't know appropriate facial expressions, so I'm just going to smile this perfect smile showing exactly what I'm feeling!"

She couldn't sit still so she got up and began following an invisible line around in a circle. I couldn't help but smile, the familiarity of it just tickled me. Its kind of like seeing another new born right after you've had a baby, only more intense. I wanted to say to the mother, "We have something so special in common here!" but I didn't, because at the moment her daughter started to "become obvious" the mother immediately intervened, "Sit down sweetie."

It was then that I looked the mother in the eyes and saw that look. It's a very painful look to witness in another human being and I think it might only be visible to other mothers who have, at some point, had that look themselves. "The Look" has only one word to describe it. Unacceptance.

The daughter didn't sit, of course. She slowed down a little, but kept following the invisible line. Isabel saw the line too and smiled big. She joined the little girl, who seemed delighted that someone else could see the line.

Together, they walked around in a circle giggling, smiling at each other, flapping their hands, and following the non-existent line. I hoped that by seeing the girls together, the mother would spot the similarities and lighten up a bit. I almost said, "There's no need to pretend around us. We love Autistic kids in our family," but, I didn't want to offend her. I tend to get too personal too quickly. I did want to get their phone number though. It can be very lonely to have kids that no one "gets," so to encounter someone in a natural way like this seemed like a priceless opportunity.

I kept trying to start a conversation, asking the mother how many children she had, how old they are, and what part of town they live in. She answered my questions, one at a time, without taking her eyes off of her daughter. Occasionally she would try to distract the daughter into doing something else, "Look at the teddy bear, sweetie!" and "What color is that rug?" They, of course, WEREN'T going to be distracted. There was a line on the floor for Pete's sake. This was obviously her first Autistic child.

She was never able to acquire any curiosity about us and seemed intent on making sure her daughter didn't look too Autistic. After she finally lost her temper and got her daughter to sit down, we all played a forced and incredibly controlled game of I Spy. This was painful for me, but it eased her up. Everyone looked 'normal'. About then, the receptionist brought me my paperwork and they were called out of the waiting room. Isabel said, "good-bye" to her new friend and we left.

I thought about it all the way home. The ability to strike up conversations with strangers is NOT among my strengths. In fact, I really suck at it. I could hear my friend Gaaby's voice, "Why didn't you just say, "Look. We obviously both have autistic kids. Want to be friends?""

"Because," I said out loud, "she would've thought I was a freak!"

"So?" my imaginary Gaaby said, "If that's the worst thing that could've happened, then why didn't you?"

Then all the excuses started. I feel sorry for that little girl. What a beautiful little girl, and her mother doesn't accept her for who she is! Isn't that sad? I can't surround myself with people like that. Why can't she just let her be herself? Then it hit me. I know why. Ughh...I know exactly why. It isn't JUST about whether or not other people notice the Autism. Its also about the Autism being painful for ME to see. And coming to see it as a beautiful thing has taken me a long time. I still slip up sometimes.

When we were in Montana last December for Christmas, we went over to some friends' house for a day of talking and playing and catching up. Isabel fell in love with one of my friends and wouldn't leave him alone. She kept getting right up in his face, waving at him and talking to him. I kept saying, "Isabel, give him some space. Isabel! Space!" He finally looked me in the eyes. His eyes were saying, "Back off Jess," but what came out of his mouth was, "I don't mind."

I too, have to be reminded to let my kids be themselves and to love them for exactly who and what they are.

You know? I'm awfully worried about being judged by other mothers. And, I'm awfully worried about people judging my kids. And here I am judging another mother, not accepting her because SHE'S not accepting. I'm "a pot calling the kettle black."

I not only have to accept my kids for exactly who and what they are, but I'm also going to need to learn to accept and respect other mothers, for wherever they are at in the process. And not deny my child a possible friendship because of my closed heart.

Geez! There are so many lessons in this deal. What a gift. I still don't think I can join that mom's club though. Ewe.