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.......I picked them up from school at 1 o'clock and should have taken my cue from the way the trip began. I parked in front of the school thinking that I would be in and out of the office before the car rider cars arrived. Boy was I wrong! You see, my youngest son walks so very, very slowly. We came out of school only to find our van trapped at the curb. Lucky for us there was only one car behind us and one beside us. Noticing my frustration, they reversed a few feet back to allow me to perform my "Serpico" reverse driving scene back to the visitor's lot before any more cars arrived. All the while, my oldest son was hitting me in the back yelling "Belt! Belt! Belt!" because in my haste to get out of the pick-up line I had not fastened their seat belts. Once in the lot only a short distance away, I fastened my oldest son's belt and secured my youngest son in the front passenger seat because I just discovered that his belt wasn't properly secured to the floor. As we drove I hoped the remainder of the trip would be uneventful -- and it would be, as long as the buttons on the dashboard didn't tempt my baby boy or he wasn't too disturbed by having his seat changed. We got a little lost locating our pediatrician's new offices but still arrived with five minutes to spare. I always try to arrive as close to the time as possible to cut down on the waiting time. My boys have a time limit on how well they can hold it all together. It seemed that there were only a few people there, but the sign-in sheet reflected that there was only one person before us. I sat in anticipation hoping my guys would make it without a melt down. My youngest amused himself with a barnyard toy, which he pressed over and over and over again. I grit my teeth (as I'm sure the other parents did) while he "entertained" us with all the animals on the farm. My oldest son continually tried to make his escape, so I held his thigh as inconspicuously as I could. I could feel the other parents glancing sideways and I knew they wondered why boys that are so tall, each weighing in at well over 100 pounds, and looking quite handsome and "normal" had to be constantly spoken to and guarded so closely. I knew that if let go they, or at least my oldest would tear around the room knocking down anything in his path, including the cute little girl who was just learning to walk. I couldn't imagine any parent being thrilled at having their child knocked, kicked and then stepped on by an unsuspecting boy with autism, no matter what his disability. So I held him, all the while listening to the shrill banshee-like screech that I worked in earnest to quiet, all the while praying for the nurse to call us inside. When we were called back to the office, I held both their hands and cupped their forearms underneath mine for extra hold. Then the games began. My oldest was weighed and measured while he constantly moved. He enjoyed having his blood pressure taken -- something to do with the squeezing, he likes being squeezed -- but no thermometer was going under his tongue and definitely not under his arm. My youngest son weighed and measured while constantly moving, he allowed his blood pressure to be taken, but not easily -- he doesn't care too much for the squeezing unless on his terms. No thermometer either, at least not without biting it. The nurse finally decided to call it quits and the wait for the doctor began. The wait for the doctor was slowly making me anxious, since my youngest began to yell (the room had a slight echo) and whine because he had "timed out". I tried pacifying him with counting and the alphabet, only to win a few extra minutes by promising a trip to Wal-Mart just for him to buy waffles and cookies. I repeated this promise with him copying my sentences over and over again, only hoping he understood. I don't know who longed for the doctor to appear more, my baby or me. My oldest made me proud when he let the doctor look into his ear (for some strange reason he likes that) and he opened wide for his throat to be examined. He giggled when his chest and tummy were examined and drew the line when it was "private parts" time. Our doctor was amused by that gesture. High fives all around and his time was up. My youngest? Well no one looks in his ears or down his throat. Doctor and I both broke out in a sweat just trying to hold his head still, so we simply gave up. All paperwork signed, we left the examining room and back in the lobby I tried desperately to pay attention to the medical assistant while watching my youngest, who kept moving from seat to seat. I finally took my oldest by the hand after he had squeezed one lady's arm. She clutched frantically at her purse when his main interest was really the beautiful shiny blonde hairs that grew all over her arms. Another woman who sat with her baby had her arms squeezed too, only I'm not quite sure why and she wasn't really sure what to make of him or whether she minded or not. The final incident -- a sudden charge to the bathroom -- while a little girl was still in it. As we left the office, I vowed I would never take them both to a doctor's appointment by myself again. But now we had to stop at Wal-Mart because I had promised. I tried to put them in one of the big blue carts. That way I would have control of both of them at the same time, but my husband makes pushing them look easy. They were way too heavy for me to push, so we abandoned the cart in the lobby. Once inside, my youngest asked to "pee pee". Maybe we can pick up the two items we came for, I thought, and maybe we can make it home before he has to really go. He was easily distracted by my asking him to pick up his own waffles, but he refocused by the time we got the bleach and set the two items down on the counter, where I got very excited because there was no one waiting on line. "Pee pee!", he repeated and I knew his request could not be ignored. It had taken us almost 6 years to train him, now he not only went alone, but he could ask. I stopped the cashier from ringing up the two items and headed for the rest rooms. Then it hit me. Here I stood with two very "normal" looking boys almost my height and I couldn't let them go into the men's room unless I went with them and I knew taking boys their size into the ladies room would cause a scene. But I had to take them, so I held my breath, ignored the gazes and the turned heads whispering, and in we went -- to the ladies room. I leaned the boys against the wall, since there were women in the restroom. A woman in her 60s or so didn't see us come in since she was busy looking under every stall to see if there were feet in them. The other women glared at me. I ignored them, continuing to give commands to my boys to stand by the wall and not move. As you can imagine, the bathroom quickly cleared. By this time the elderly lady had noticed us and turned to me with a strained smile when she saw I was not about to leave. "You can use the big one," she said as she pointed to the large stall at the end of the bathroom that was build specifically for the elderly and persons with disabilities. "It's big and roomy in there." I thanked her, and grabbing both boys headed for the door. Once inside, my oldest who didn't have to go before, quickly pushed his baby brother to the side and took a seat. His brother stood there with his pants around his ankles while I coaxed him to hold on. While I got one off the toilet and gave him instructions for dressing and washing his hands, I quickly seated the other one. Pants were set straight and hands washed and dried (all the while giving commands) and it couldn't have taken more that five minutes. We opened the door to an audience, including one of the Wal-Mart floor managers, who I am sure the dozen ladies who had exited in such haste when we arrived, had rushed to get. I can imagine their renditions of how the situation evolved. "There's a crazy lady in the bathroom with two grown boys!" "She probably can't read or speak English!" "There's a lot of screeching, squealing and strange noises coming from inside!" They stood in a line against the wall and no one said a word as we emerged from the stall. To tell the truth, I was praying that they wouldn't because I was so frustrated by this time, I might have ended up on the 6 o'clock news! Maybe my face reflected what I was feeling, because no one said a word, not even the Wal-Mart employee. Only my oldest reached out (unsuccessfully, since I held him as close and as firmly as I could) to try and touch the ones who caught his unexplainable "eye". They just stared at us as we walked out without a word. I could feel the people staring as we came out of the ladies bathroom and returned to the cashier (after we had picked up the Nutter Butters and Oreos -- I mean, I had promised). I held my head high as we paid for our items and left the store. I held my head high as I told my youngest son to wait until we got to the van before opening his cookies. I held my head high as I held a conversation with a lady in the parking lot who had Crone's Disease. (She had obviously witnessed the entire episode and desperate to vent to anyone who would listen without cynicism, felt a bond of some type existed between us.) I held my head high for about a mile down the street towards home. Then I felt my head slowly sinking. It had been an exhausting afternoon. It was hitting home with me that things that are considered "normal" at home or school, are not even remotely "normal" in the outside world. I realized that there are situations I don't have to deal with when we are traveling as a family. I realized that I never travel alone with my sons unless it's to therapy sessions where their behaviors are commonplace. I realized that I busy myself with ways to help other parents of children with disabilities and that some of their children have such severe disabilities that I often don't even think of my own as having special needs. Well, for at least that afternoon, I realized that no matter how severe, all of our children have an inability to deal with situations that others take for granted. I felt fear and anxiety and helplessness. And for a brief moment I broke down far enough to ask "Why my boys?" and I cried. Written by Sylvia Miller, Proud mother of two sons with autism ages 9 and 7.
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