Editor's note: We debut our Moms Talk feature this week. It's intended to be a place where moms — and dads — can discuss parenting issues or ask for advice. For now, email questions or issues you'd like to see to dan.nephin@patch.com.
“Why don’t you just go? It’s my turn!”
The voice is coming from inside the plastic tubing. Uh-oh, I think.
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“Why won’t you answer me? Go! GO!”
It is just one voice. And it is not my child’s.
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“You’re a MEAN GIRL!”
Suddenly, thankfully, I see my 3-year-old daughter emerge from the slide. Without the slightest hesitation, she heads back into the climbing end of the restaurant’s play area, completely unfazed.
A nanosecond later, the source of the mysterious voice also appears. Arms crossed and pouting, she marches straight over to her mother and points at Sonia.
“Mommy, that girl is mean,” she pronounces. “She won’t play right.”
I freeze. It actually feels like time is standing still. My hands start to ball up; open, shut, open, shut. I will not cry.
“It’s OK, honey,” the girl’s mother replies. “You just don’t have to play with her, then.”
Fair. Simple. Frankly, what any mother would say.
Yet I hate her.
I want to scream in her face, “HOW DARE YOU cast your daughter as the victim? You have NO IDEA how hard Sonia has to TRY just to do the everyday things your kid takes for granted, you judgmental, ignorant jerk! My child is AUTISTIC, not mean!”
But I don’t.
Instead, I remain in my seat and watch my little girl play. I wave to her whenever I happen to fall into her line of sight — and remind myself not to take it personally when she doesn’t wave back.
After half an hour and several less dramatic, yet equally unsuccessful encounters with her peers, I gather our things and steel myself for the inevitable.
“C’mon, Sonia,” I chime. “Time to go home!”
She scurries past me as though I don’t exist and disappears back into the tubes.
“Sonia, one more slide and then we’re leaving,” I holler.
No acknowledgement.
OK. This is it. I strategically position myself against the wall next to the mouth of the slide. The moment I see her mismatched purple socks, I scoop her up and make a beeline toward the door. She howls and kicks the entire way, scratching at my face.
“Time to go, kiddo,” I sing-song, trying with every fiber of my being to ignore the dozens of eyes upon us.
“I know; I know … leaving is hard … you were having fun, huh?”
Only screaming. More stares.
Smile. Keep walking. You can put her shoes on later.
I somehow manage to coerce Sonia into her car seat and steady my shaking fingers enough to buckle the straps. She begins to play with a favorite toy – a tiny plush dolphin tied at the tailfin to a short piece of ribbon. She twirls it around, humming to herself.
Calming, calming … calm.
I climb into the driver’s seat and breathe, trying not to speculate about what’s being said about us back in the restaurant.
I remind myself that we’re lucky; autism is a wide spectrum and Sonia is hardly a severe case. I think of the countless other parents who are dealing with the same issues … or worse. I mentally apologize to the other little girl and her mom for projecting my own fears and insecurities onto them. I try to forgive both my self and society for being imperfect. I ask for strength.
Calming, calming … calm.
I start the car. It’s time for Mean Girl and The Bad Mom to go home.