One recent Saturday morning, I drove my 31-year-old autistic son Diego to a park for his group run with Achilles, an organization that promotes running for people with disabilities. As we walked toward the group, I suddenly noticed he wasnât wearing underwear. I mean, you could just tellâthe nylon shorts he had on offered no lining or support, clinging to the contours of his body.
I was instantly overcome with the blend of frustration and panic I would often feel when Diego was a child, but that I rarely experience at this point.
âFor the love of God, Diego,â I said, trying to keep my voice calm as we turned toward the public restrooms to see if I could mitigate the situation by tightening the shortsâ drawstrings or something. âYouâre already 31. Why? You know you canât go places without underwear. What were you thinking!â
As is always the case when I become upset, Diego was repentant. âI wonât do it again. I wonât do it again,â he said, his eyes anxious and sad, and proceeded to break into prayer, âOur Father who art in heaven… Iâm never going to do it again. God, Iâll never forget to put on underwear.â
His words instantly triggered the second stage of my reaction in these situations. My heart softened, guilt washed over me, and frustration gave way to tenderness.
âI forgive you. Letâs forgive ourselves,â Diego said, hugging me before exiting the bathroom. Diego has never used pronouns correctly when apologizing.
I informed the Achilles guides of our little situation just so theyâd know Iâm on top of things and that Diego typically wore underwear. They didnât seem to care either way. Iâd made a big deal in my head about nothing.
The underwear incident reminded me of the enormous fear of rejection, both of my son and myself, that I harbored for so many years. I guess that fear is still there to some extent.
When Diego was a child, I strove to hide, minimize or make excuses for the things that made him seem different âhis tantrums, running away, lining things up, ignoring me, looking at things out of the corner of his eye, covering his ears.
Truly, it was exhausting.
Still, I was convinced it was the right thing to do. So I kept at it.
I told myself Diego would eventually outgrow what was referred to as delays, disability, autism, deficits, pervasive developmental disorder, maladaptive behaviors, issues. I would be one of those rare mothers who found the magic formula to cure her child of whatever afflicted him.
Diego would learn to be normal!
Back then, I believed he would have no chance at normalcy if people treated him as if he werenât normal. So I would only talk about what sounded normal: that he loved the water and had learned to swim, that he played chase with his aunt, slept through the night, could name a dozen whales, loved books, and was super affectionate.
A story I heard recently illustrates how useless my thinking was: A mother brought her autistic son to church for the first time, and he threw an all-out tantrum in the middle of the aisle as they made their way to the pew. While trying to calm him down, she saw a church helper heading their way and thought, Itâs just as I feared. Weâre going to be asked to leave.
The church helper leaned over and said, âIâm so glad youâre here. How can I help?â
This was not always my experience with the Church, but the point Iâm trying to make is that many people want to know, help and embrace us as we are. Perhaps my attitude prevented others who wanted to be part of our lives from knowing, helping and embracing us.
All because I was intent on jamming Diego into the normal world, as if it were the only world, the whole world, the best world. Turns out it was not.