Someone called the police on me today. I am accustomed to apologies in the gazes of strangers. I’m used to the startled reactions of strangers. In public spaces, I’ve become inured to the annoyed reactions to my son’s lack of social graces. I’ve got two decades of experience with both the overly solicitous comments or wide berth that people steer around my 21-year-old neurodivergent son and myself. I have a strong Teflon coating over the bubble of us.
This is important, because now that he’s an adult and not in school any more, there’s a marked difference in institutional support – ironically, at the time in his life when he yearns for independence and needs that support. For families of kids with special needs, leaving Grade 12 holds little or no eager anticipation of their future. Graduation is less a marker of achievement than a marker of dread for the unknown.
Jess checks for traffic after he pushes the crosswalk button. I know this. I’ve seen him do it. But is he checking because that’s on his mental list? Or is he checking to see if there are cars? I don’t know. Because my son’s attention, while trainable, is not reliable. I wonder about the driver who’s distracted, or in a rush and not seeing the tall young man stepping into the crosswalk because the light told him it was okay.
She apologizes several times, breathing hard from her workout and anxiety over my son. Now we’re both feeling anxious, but I know from experience I must set aside my needs to deal with hers first. Jess comes zooming up to me and I disengage from her, for him.
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