BOBBY

Dear Persons,

I know Bobby because my brother-in-law used to do respite care with him. 

He often brought him to brunch at our house on Sundays. Bobby was eternally grateful for the food I cooked. He would play with my son, games most kids his age would have scoffed at. 

Bobby would hug us so tight when he left.  He had a sweet side for sure.

Bobby’s not his real name.

Bobby must be in his early twenties by now.

He’s sitting on his front porch most days when I drive by on my way to town. 

He’s trying to quit smoking.

He’s gaining weight.

Sometimes I see him in town with a “helper.” I say “Hi” and check in on whether he’s quit smoking yet.

I never see him with anyone else.

My daughter—when she sees me tear up when we drive past him—says, “Mom, that’s not going to happen to [G], he has you and he has me and you’re a good mom.”

Bobby’s mom is probably a good mom too. (Or his parent/guardian[s] is [are] good, in their own way[s].)

Do any parents not love their kids and want the best for them?

Is every life not a worthwhile life?

What can young adults DO in this small town with few young people and fewer opportunities?…And if they are on the spectrum? 

Bobby’s on the spectrum.

Even in bigger cities, with more opportunities, more diversity—are human beings with differences getting lost in the mix? I’m betting they are.

What are the components of a decent life? From my perspective, they would include community (however that is defined, in a way that makes sense for each individual), meaningful work or some sort of activity that contributes, health, the freedom and opportunity to pursue one’s interests and goals.

From my perspective, Bobby’s life seems terribly lonely and sad. 

But it’s unfair to make assumptions about someone else’s life.  And maybe he wouldn’t agree.

I think he deserves better.

Maybe he wouldn’t agree. There are certainly many things I don’t know about Bobby’s life.

I do know that I don’t want a life like his for my son.

Maybe my son wouldn’t agree.

Soon, the time will come for that conversation. I will help him in any way I can to make his dreams come true, but at a certain point* he will become more and more—or even entirely—responsible for his own life. 

I hope he’s seen and understood enough of the world by then to make healthy, positive, proactive choices, both in terms of how he wants to live and as far as what he needs to do to live that life.

Love,

Full Spectrum Mama

* When will that be, dear fellow parents of children with differences? A tough question, with as many answers as there are children…

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OH! THE ____ SCHOOL?

Pardner is a chef and recently texted me during dinner service about a nice family that was at the restaurant. He said he’d been observing them, from his open kitchen, and he thought the teenage son was “very lovable” and “probably had asperger’s.” He mentioned that the kid had told the server that he wanted to come back and visit the chef after dinner, and was hoping that was okay with Chef. Pardner being a cheery and accommodating fellow, it certainly was.

An hour or so later, Pardner texted me again. This time he told me that the father of the teenager had turned out to be “a jerk.” When he came home (late – argh), he told me more about what had happened. Apparently, this Dad hadn’t let his son visit with Chef, and had been short with the server. Somehow over the course of the meal, his personality had changed.

I was really surprised, but I was also sleepy.

In the morning, I asked for more detail. It turns out that the server, a well-meaning and sweet person who has some experience with children, had engaged this family in friendly conversation. When she found out they were not local, she’d asked why they were in the area and they’d said they were looking at schools.

“Oh!” she said. “The ____ School?”

The ___ School is a school for children with special needs.

“Well, there you go,” I said, feeling a little sick to my stomach for that family.

“What?” retorted Pardner, completely dumbfounded and baffled.

“You don’t even get it, do you?” I replied, nicely.

Shut the Front Door.

Imagine you are a family. Maybe you have a child who is “different”…but you want that child to have every opportunity. So you take them out to a fancy restaurant. Part of you, hypothetically, is praying that your child is not disruptive in any way. Another part of you feels that your child has as much right to be in a restaurant as anyone else. Part of you, again, hypothetically speaking, celebrates your child EXACTLY AS HE OR SHE IS; another part (probably much smaller but still there, okay?) desperately wants your child to fit in, to be accepted, to be able to “pass.”

So you are eating your dinner. Maybe it’s been an intense day with interviews, maybe with wondering if your child is “too different” or “less different” than other kids at the potential school. Maybe you just want to eat some ding dang dinner in peace. And your chipper, cute, 20-something server just – out of the blue, basically; trying to be “compassionate,” or “knowledgeable,” or whatever  - busts out with her “understanding” information.

Because, obviously, your child needs to go to the “Special” school, right????

“Really?” Pardner asked, after I explained this to him through my tears. I felt so bad for that poor father, and the kid, who’d been pigeonholed, albeit by someone with nothing but good intentions. “Hmm. He didn’t leave a very good tip.”

“See?” That was the final proof for me. Even though that server had done her best vis-à-vis her actual job, and probably deserved the great tip she usually would’ve gotten, her presumption had not served anybody well.

Love,

Full Spectrum Mama



P.S. The ____ School is a fantabulous school. That's not the point.

P.P.S. Please also see "ON WRITING" for an update on this post!