Where Do You Find the Words?

I hate playgrounds. I loathe taking my kids to the park. All of those children. All of those moms. They don't know me, and I don' t know them. But that doesn't stop the judgement. They sit on a bench, or in the shade of a tree, occasionally calling out to their children an admonition to be careful or stop throwing sand, before they turn back to the friend beside them to continue their pleasant conversation. I, on the other hand, chase my three-year-old all over the playground, catching her when she falls, pulling her to safety before she absent-mindedly walks in front of the swings. That's fine. They don't notice me or my child. To them we are just another family in the park. That is until it happens--and it always does.

Eventually my daughter will find their child and become fascinated with their hair, or shirt, or arms and legs. She'll pull the hair, stroke the shirt, smell, or even lick, the arms and legs. She'll push other, usually smaller, but sometimes larger, children down the slide. She'll throw sand at everyone and everything, laughing a sadistic laugh that draws more than a few baffled glances.

And if she isn't busy molesting someone, she's doing something only mildly less disturbing like tasting the sand or wood chips, or scooping sand and pouring it over her own head, again and again and again.

My friends and neighbors gave up inviting me to join them at the park long ago. I'm not sure why. Rarely do I go to the park on my own accord. But during soccer season I have no choice. Now I find myself at the park or playground at least twice a week while my sons have soccer practice. And while they are busy with practice, I grudgingly lead my other children over to the play equipment.

Where do you find the words to explain autism to some stranger's child? How do you answer a nameless seven-year-old when she asks: "Doesn't she know any manners?" or "Why does she do that?" "Why can't she talk?" "My two-year-old brother doesn't need help doing that."

And then there are the mothers. What do I say when they try to be polite by asking my daughter how old she is? Of course I answer for her--she can't answer for herself. Then they always, and I really mean always, ask her if she would like to play with their little girl. SHE. CAN'T. TALK. She won't talk. And most children, even three-year-olds, expect their play dates to speak to them--oh, and not to molest them. You should watch these mothers when my daughter starts tearing out their daughter's hair or smelling her ears. "Let's not do that. Try to play nice," they'll say in a sweet voice. Hah! I feel like grabbing her up in my arms and making a mad dash for the car. But then I could never go back to that park again. That would make soccer practice only slightly more awkward.

So I say to them, "She has autism and a seizure disorder. She doesn't play well with others yet, but we're working on it. Thanks, anyway." Dumbfounded, they smile and nod as I turn and walk away. They won't see the tears; those will come later when no one else is looking.