What I also do not recall was being warned that I would be saying “sorry,” more than a philandering politician. After apologizing for myself for more than 30 years, I am now held accountable for the actions of my two socially deviant, destructo spawn. Their crimes range from thievery and assault, to vandalism; and they are not even out of preschool. This does not bode well for their teenage years.
Adding to my parenting challenge is autism. Autism complicates parenting in many ways. One counterintuitive challenge presented by autism is that an autistic child looks like any other child. It is not his looks that signal to the world that this child is different, it is his actions that set him apart. Often times those actions may appear to the casual observer to be those of an ill-disciplined barbarian. I still lack a pithy response to those observers who remark, “Why can’t you control your child?”
Complicating efforts to treat children on the spectrum is that they are autistic in their own individual way. Some of their traits may overlap with those of other autistic children, and then mysteriously, they will possess their own endearing quirks. My son has no concept of boundaries or personal property. We always have to be vigilant. Out of necessity we must be helicopter parents. Even something as straightforward as being seated in a restaurant is fraught with peril. More than once we have sat down only to notice Kendall already has food in his mouth. It is not difficult to spot where it came from; the table of angry people staring at us after Kendall has swiped fries or chips off their table as he passed. He is a simple man. If I had to guess at his thought process it would probably go something like; “I’m hungry, there was food, I took it, and ate it. What’s the problem?”
Elevators have proven to be another behavior red zone. America is more of an escalator nation but vertically-oriented Asia requires spending a lot of time riding in elevators. Fortunately, Asia has proven to be a remarkably tolerant locale given the indignities my son has inflicted on people he meets in the elevator. An attractive neighbor wearing a breezy floral skirt only uttered a high-pitched, surprised squeal when Kendall reached out and touched her skirt in a strategically frontal location. At a resort in the Philippines, a rotund man in a hotel robe simply patted Kendall’s head and remarked, “Good boy” after Kendall bounced his head on the man’s ample belly.
But even in child-friendly Hong Kong there are limits of tolerance. A child flailing and writhing on the floor of an elevator for a 20 story descent earns dear old mom looks of admonition, shaking heads, and audible tsk tsks. Subduing my child once we reach the ground floor will take the last of my energy stores. Tantrums are rough on everybody; the child who lacks the comprehension to control their behavior, the parent struggling to make them understand, and the general public who witnesses the spectacle. Thirty seconds is not long enough to explain. Therefore, I endure the disapproval. Ditto the disgusted looks when Kendall licks the buttons.
Parks would seem to be a stress-free zone. Children run free and act like children. How can you get in trouble in a park? In Hong Kong there are two distinct demographics that frequent the local parks; children and the elderly. They each have areas of the park devoted to them. There are slides and monkey bars for the children and exercise stations for the the elderly. Both groups are typically attended by domestic helpers.
Playing at park near my son’s school one afternoon, my son managed to wreak havoc throughout the park during a brief, but intense, amount of time. The first unwitting victim was an elderly man exercising his arms. He had set his cane to the side of the equipment. Kendall was casually wandering past when the sight of the can must have piqued his curiosity. I was only a few steps behind him but that was obviously a few steps too many. Kendall quickly snatched the cane off the ground where the man had left it and began to examine it. I arrived and explained that it was not ours and needed to be returned. Fortunately on this day Kendall relinquished the cane without a fight. The man, was gracious, if not bemused by the incident.
While I apologized to the man something else caught Kendall’s attention and he was off. No sooner had I finished apologizing for this discourtesy than I looked up to see Kendall grabbing the handles of a wheelchair; an occupied wheelchair. Kendall did not get far with the alarmed elderly woman seated in the wheelchair because the woman’s caretaker and I reached the chair at about the same time and I persuaded Kendall to let go. He did, but now he was showing signs of frustration that his curiosity was thwarted twice in less than five minutes. He scrambled back the children’s area only to latch on to a stroller parked there. Luckily it was empty but by now I was a wreck. I had enough of the park and the other park visitors had had enough of us.
Not far from our apartment is a decent Italian restaurant. Lately we have been walking there for Sunday evening family dinners. The restaurant has sliding glass doors in front that are usually open to a spacious sidewalk adjacent to a small car park. The children usually finish their pizza before the adults have finished their main courses and ask if they can play in front. After all, it is just a sidewalk, what could go wrong?
The first time we allowed the children to play in front while we finished our meal we discovered that our little angels had erased the chalkboard listing the restaurant specials. The following week we took pains to secure assurances from them that the chalkboard was off-limits. Once again, the area looked benign, so my son was allowed to wait outside while my husband paid the check. The restaurant employs a musician who approached us and wanted to sing a few duets with my daughter. While I was enjoying their rendition of “When You Wish Upon a Star” I turned to check on my son. Words could barely form in my mouth. All I managed to stammer to my husband was, “Mark, the car.” There was my son, perched on the roof of a sleek, black Audi A6. Mark kicked in turbo mode, flew out the door, and snatched Kendall off the roof of the car; my knight in wrinkled chinos.
There is so much they did not say. How could they? Each child does his or her best to drive their parents crazy in their own unique and special way. One remark they frequently make when hearing Kendall’s latest exploits is, “Oh no he didn’t...” followed by maniacal laughter, which I now hear.
