Soft Underbelly

Who beeps at the short bus? What kind of human being can't wait for someone to load their OBVIOUSLY disabled child onto the bus? Grrr.
The same people who tell me my writhing son needs a spanking. Actually, I get less of that then some of my friends who tell me horror stories of people saying vile, cruel things to them about their frightened, crying autistic kids. Being big and often bald and always tattooed seems to be a deterrent to that sort of thing.

Don takes Jude out to public places. I don't. Why? Because all it takes is one scornful look from a passerby and I go all Large Marge on some old woman and open the whole family up to a lawsuit.
I mean it. I just can't handle that kind of thing.

Don, however, is like this traveling amabassador for the developmentally disabled. If people stare or say stuff, he explains. He starts conversations, tells people proudly how his awesome kid learned to talk and why he shouts HAM and how much joy he brings us.

He is my hero.

Jesus says he wants us to be like little children, with unjaded hearts that never assume the worst. I remember when I was a child, and I had these little hermit crabs for pets. They would change their shells, switch around at night when I wasn't looking. One morning the biggest one was out of his shell, naked. He had outgrown every shell, and there he was, all soft and slimy for all the world to see. The image haunted me for years.

My friend's kids were throwing a ball, a little yellow ball, back and forth in the hallway. The older of the two, Joshua, is Jude's age, but they have never played together, not once, because playing with kids involves rules and nuances that might as well be a lecture on theroectical inorganic chemistry. Jude simply cannot make sense of it. Yet.

So Jude grabs the ball and takes off running. Joshua is a nice kid, he and I play sometimes, games Jude can't, like catch, and he knows I will get his ball back. I see his resignation. I drag Jude out from under the hallway bench, and pry the ball from his hands. I give it back to Joshua. I grab him, and I say, you can't grab, Jude, that was Joshua's ball. Jude is writhing and yelling. Ibring him onto my room and he clears the table, sending dishes and some papers crashing to the floor.
I hold him tight, and I say in his ear, You wanted to play with Joshua, right? You want to but you don't know how. Now you are sad.

His face crumples, along with my heart, and he stands there, rubbing his eyes and crying, wet choking sobs.

God.

It was easier when he didn't care, was in his own little world. He tries to join us here in ours and he realizes, dammit, that he is a puzzle piece that just does not fit. I hold him and rock him for awhile, and he wants to watch Calliou, the episode with the deaf kid, Robbie, who grabs Caillou's shovel and runs away.

I head down to my nieghbor, who is in the hallway with her kids. I am embarrased and worried she is sick of the grabbing and yelling, who wouldn't be. I am also inexplicably mad at poor Joshua, for I don't know, being normal, and I take a deep breath, and say, I 'm sorry, I think Jude wanted to play.

She smiles, and says, I think Joshua wants to play with Jude, too.

Really? I say. This throws me.

Yeah, I see him go down there and try to get Jude's attention.

I just look at her.

Maybe Joshua could come out to therapy, with Jude sometime? We could work on taking turns or whatever?

That'd be fun! she says, and head down the hallway after her toddler, unaware that she has rocked my world, in the best way possible.

I duck into the hallway kitchen and cry.

When I get back to my room Jude is on the couch, and I sit by him. He looks in my eyes, and says, It's okay, now, Mama.

Yes, I say.

It's gonna be okay.