The Special Needs Mom Versus "The Future"

Something a special needs mom reacts differently to, is the word "future."

We're used to running interference for our kids.  I imagine myself as a NFL center or tackle, trying to protect my quarterback son.  He's more vulnerable, not wearing a helmet, blinking behind his smudgy glasses, and he's trying to hurl that football past the goal.  Watching the field like a lioness, I anticipate where the game is headed, trying to minimize any potential blow.

On a chalkboard, John Madden like, I sketch out plays.

If we can teach him how to better organize and focus, he can do this... If he can learn to type fast, the handwriting won't matter...

My teenage son has Asperger's syndrome and has sensory integration issues.  Many of his teachers adore him.  He has a quirky sense of humor.  His many friends, other Aspies, often hang out at our home, howling at Jib Jab parodies and "Mystery Science Theater 3000" reruns.

He is nearly a straight A student.  His vocabulary is college level, yet his handwriting is that of a third-grader's.  He is a fascinating blend of brilliance with handicaps.  When a test isn't timed, he scores way beyond peers.  Extra time is accorded to him through his annual IEP, (individualized education program).

Real life won't make such allowances, won't give him an extra five minutes to finish a book report or history essay.  It won't stop bullying or make his peers accepting or welcoming.

A recent grocery shopping trip drives this reality home.

The female cashier appears to be 18 or 19, and has curly, overprocessed, shoulder-length hair.  Her pale skin is bumpy and thick with make-up.  She wears heavy eyeliner and pink lipstick.  She is pleasant to me, tallying my order, sweeping barcodes across the scanner, electronic beeps sounding in staccato.  At the end of the counter is a burly teenage kid in a navy polo shirt, packing groceries into green recyclable bags.  Even though he should be rotating between checkout lanes, helping other middle-aged cashiers, he likes her.  She keeps smiling, telling him to "stop it" in a teasing, flirting voice.  He barely pays attention to whether he is packing ice cream next to the warm roasted chicken.

Another employee, a teenage boy in glasses, approaches.  He is lower on the grocery foodchain, having the more menial task, collecting leftover items in a large plastic bin.  He places two bottles of ketchup next to the cash register.  She snaps at him, brushing her arm forward like she's swatting a fly.  "Put it (in some designated area), NOT at the back of MY register."  He doesn't even merit eye contact.

The kid in glasses has a sweet, open face, less stony or robotic as the burly peer.  His muscles are soft and underdeveloped because he's never been recruited for a team.  He's likely picked last.  What is bothersome, though, is he seems resigned to his treatment as lowly serf, the "not-as-good-as."  He doesn't fight back.

In the future, coworkers might treat my son like that boy at the grocery store.  They'll walk right past him and won't say hello after he greets them.  They won't be tolerant of his quirks or know that he prefers Velcro fasteners on his shoes, not laces... not understand his freaking out over ketchup on his plate.  To them, he'll be a caricature, a Napoleon Dynamite, a punch line to their jokes.

I will not be there to run interference, to make them treat him with respect and decency, or ask them to include him when they walk laughing to the company cafeteria.

Sometimes, it keeps me up at night, when the street lamp across from our house casts shadows on the bedroom ceiling, maple leaves rustling, the occasional car engine vibrating the pavement.  It's so quiet I can almost hear my anxiety.  I fight a despair about this celebrity-worshipping, plastic-surgery-ied, cool and trendy, "who wore it better?" culture which splinters people into the haves and have-nots.  I won't be there to put my arm around him and tell him the mean people don't matter.

This is an original post to the Chicago Moms Blog.  Contributor Cheryl O'Donovan is a weekly humor columnist for the Pioneer Press.  Recent columns include a take on the summer vacation and White Sox versus Cubs fans.  Her work has appeared in Chicago Parent and the Tallahassee Woman magazines and other publications.