Dear Critical Diner,
You may not recall my family or me, but your judgment was quick and clear. “We will never let our kids get lost in screens during family meals,” you said to your partner, pointing in our direction. In that moment, you decided that your future, imagined children would never behave in a manner you deemed disrespectful and thoughtless. I am confident that you continued your day without a second glance at the child lost in his phone at brunch.
I understand your perspective, truly. I used to share similar views back in the days when I only dreamed of having children. Before I had my own real kids. Before I recognized that one of those children had special needs that made him unique. Before a doctor introduced me to a term that started with an A.
It’s easy to cast judgment when you’re not experiencing the challenges firsthand. All you see is a kid distracted by a phone. But my reality is so different. As a parent of a child with autism, I’ve learned that what seems like a simple situation can be layered with complexity.
While you see a child zoning out, I see the boy who struggled this morning just to put on his clothes. He prefers to be free and often finds clothing uncomfortable, even when it’s oversized. That cotton T-shirt might feel like a straightjacket to him. So while you perceive a child lost in a device, I see a child who managed to get dressed.
You see a child ignoring his family, engrossed in games. I see a kid who participated in family pictures at a local park, despite his reluctance. He climbed a tall bench made of tree branches, seeking those brief moments of excitement to distract himself from the discomfort of his shirt. He held still, smiled, and made eye contact for an entire hour, which is no small feat for him. While you see a kid disengaged, I see a child who cooperated with family activities despite his apprehensions.
You notice a child passing up his meal for videos. I see the child who patiently waited thirty minutes for a table, only to find that the food served was not what he expected. He could eat it, yes, but it’s unfamiliar and intimidating. While you might view it as a child refusing to eat, I see a boy who is simply waiting for the comfort of his favorite food at home.
You perceive a child uninterested in social interaction. I see a kid who is bravely holding it together despite the overwhelming situations he faces. Just one of these factors could lead to a meltdown, but he’s managing to cope. The colorful characters on that tiny screen provide just enough distraction for him to navigate through the chaos of his day—he’s zoning out to maintain his composure amidst the tight shirt, the anxiety building inside him, and his hungry belly that might be audible at the next table.
So, dear Diner, please remember this. The next time you see a child zoning out during a family meal, your future children may be perfect in your vision, but the child next to you might be doing an incredible job of holding it together. Sometimes zoning out is the only way to cope.
Warm regards,
That Kid’s Supportive Mother
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Summary
This letter addresses a judgmental woman who criticized a mother for her child’s behavior during brunch. The mother explains the challenges of parenting a child with autism, revealing the complexities behind the child’s actions that may appear disrespectful. She asks for understanding and compassion, reminding readers that not everything is as it seems.