“Yay! Golden Spoon!” the kids start to squeal as we pull into the parking lot. “I don’t like cheesecake. It tastes like cheese. I like cotton candy. I like sprinkles…” Pablo enunciates every syllable so carefully, reciting the same familiar script he says to nobody in particular whenever we get frozen yogurt.
We enter the store. It’s crowded and busy, like all yogurt shops seem to be. Why is frozen yogurt suddenly so popular? And why is every frozen yogurt shop the size of an ATM vestibule? An entire family has entered the store just moments ahead of us, and I know we’re in for a long wait. The girls and I get in line, and Nikki begins to read the selections from the menu board. After just a week and a half in 1st grade, her reading skills are already showing major improvement. Pablo heads for the bathroom, which he usually does when we enter any restaurant. He likes to check out the ceiling vents.
“Pom…pom…” Nikki tries to sound out pomegranate blueberry. It’s not working out so well. I remind the girls that they can each pick one topping. The store is so crowded; it’s hard for the kids to see the menu. We crane our necks around the crowd in front of us. Then I see Pablo. He’s frightened. Is he overwhelmed? No, he’s hurt. I see tears in his eyes. He shrieks loudly, and the sound seems amplified by a million in this tiny space, crowded with people. Then, he says it:
GOD DAMMIT!
His words pierce the air, and I hear people gasp. “What the hell?” I hear from one man. People don’t know what’s going on. “Jesus!” another says. People look at one another in horror, and then look at me. I try to reach Pablo. He doesn’t see me. He sees five adults, strangers to him, glaring at him. I call to him, “Pablo, I’m over here…” One woman locks eyes with Pablo. He is embarrassed. He knows he has done something very wrong. The woman glares. “You shut up.” He yells. “No, YOU SHUT UP!” She yells back. She is angry. He is afraid. I am numb. “Pablo, you don’t speak to people that way. Apologize to that lady.” He steps toward her, waves a hand at her and says, “Sowwy?” She makes a disgusted, “Tsk!” sound and looks away.
I take Pablo’s arm, and whisk him out the door. The girls follow me to the car, and we get in. It’s immediately clear that we aren’t sticking around for frozen yogurt, and Lexi begins to wail. “It’s all your fault, Pablo! It’s always your fault!” she screams. She kicks at his seat. He puts his face in his hands and quietly weeps. Mallory touches my arm. “Mom, that lady was being kind of mean to Pablo, too. I mean, he shouldn’t have said that, but…” Mallory always looks out for Pablo. She asks if we should go talk to the lady some more. I have no idea.
Five minutes pass. Lexi begins to settle down. Pablo isn’t crying anymore, but his face shows defeat. I hear Paul’s words in my head, “Why do you care what other people think?” But I do. The idea of people feeling disgusted and horrified by my little boy…it’s too much for me to bear. He’s a child. He’s seven. He’s a little kid.
I leave the kids in the car, and re-enter the store, alone. The woman is still at the counter, picking out toppings. “Excuse me, ma’am? I just wanted to apologize for my son,” I say. The words stick in my mouth. I am truly stuck, not knowing what the appropriate reaction should be. Her night was spoiled by my son’s rudeness. She deserves an apology for that. “He has autism, and he got hurt in the bathroom. I’m sorry he was so rude to you,” I say. “No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at him. I figured he had…something like that when I saw you take him out of here. I’ve had a hard day, dealing with kids all day. I shouldn’t have said that.” Fuck no, you shouldn’t have said that, I think to myself, but say instead, “Have a nice night, then.”
We drive away, and the kids ask if we can get ice cream somewhere else. Pablo pipes up from the backseat, “I need to call the police, Mommy. I yelled at a lady. I need to call them so they can take me away from here.” My heart shatters into a million pieces and my eyes burn with tears. Just another day.
ANYWAY. Y’all know what my family is like. We’re a little rough around the edges. For one thing, we don’t fit the mold of the typical family we see around these parts – we have A LOT more kids than most people. My husband looks like a big scary biker. And with two sets of twins (and a teenager!), we generate a lot of noise and chaos wherever we go – and you can imagine how that’s magnified having a kid with autism, who takes that whole “making a joyful noise” thing really seriously. When my family shows up somewhere, people take notice – and oftentimes, it’s not in the nicest way. We’ve been the recipient of many a hairy eyeball as we’ve made our way in the world, and I’ve learned that you have to sort of EXPECT that from people – after all, they don’t realize our son 
has a disability, and when their first impression is of him tearing through the hallway to inspect a light switch, CHIRPING the whole way, you have to expect a few stares. We get it. That’s one thing being an autism mama has gifted me with: a thicker skin. I’m pleased to say that we have been welcomed with open arms by the staff at Eastern Hills. The children’s ministry leader called me up right after we started attending, and we had a nice long conversation about Pablo and his issues. And for the most part, I don’t feel like TOO much of a spectacle there, even when I’m chasing my son through the lobby and sanctuary because he HAS to say hello to someone he recognizes. 
She was a nice stylist. She chatted with me about my weekend, and about visiting her family in Nebraska and how her hair looked bad the entire time because the wind never stops blowing there. I was a little distracted while she was talking to me, though, because the longer I sat in her chair, the more I started to realize a horrible, disturbing truth: my stylist had poop hands. I’ve been a mommy for a long time, and ass-wiping is one of the things I’m really super good at, now that all my little ones are out of diapers: I know poop when I smell it! And every time her hands got closer to my face, I smelled poop.