I met Dr. Alan J. Schwartz for the first time when he was the anesthesiologist for my daughter about two years ago. All of the doctors that care for Addie at Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia (CHOP) are awesome, but I’d like to think it was fate the day Dr. Schwartz walked into pre-op.

He looks like Steven Spielberg and reminds me of someone Spielberg would make a movie about. He is so personable and caring. There’s no rushing and everyone is important. My daughter was important to him.

He knew Addie was “complicated” and had a long medical history. She has to be intubated for all procedures, big or small (even MRIs, due to her lung disease). When Dr. Schwartz walked in, it was as if God sent me Mary Poppins dressed in scrubs.

He explained to me that he believes in the patient and the family, and that the patient/family centered approach works best. He told me he would take the very best care of her. I did not doubt him at all.

He said I was to “suit up” and I would carry her to the operating room myself and actually hold her. They would put a mask on her face while I held her and I would speak to her to comfort her until she fell asleep. Once asleep, I would leave and they would “do their thing.” This would alleviate the scariness to an autistic child and prevent the crying and screaming which would lead to issues with her breathing because of her rare lung disease. This would also prevent a possible seizure brought on from all of these things (she has a seizure history because of a rare brain malformation).

Flash Forward to now. It’s 2015 and Addie is now 4. She has a service dog named Data who we adore. We have a doctor named Dr. Dunham, and his secretary, Eileen Kelm, on speed dial. They’re superheroes, but when Addie needed another procedure I took a chance and emailed Dr. Schwartz.

I am not joking, the guy emailed me within 5 minutes. He said he wasn’t working as many hours but he would of course take care of Addie in anesthesia and coordinate with our other doctors. I was suddenly watching a CHOP tour de force at work. Addie sees a host of specialists at CHOP, and they’re all awesome, but this is just extraordinary.

As it turned out, Dr. Schwartz had published a paper about the importance of special needs children having their service animals with them leading up to procedures. We would try this with Addie.

When the time came, the gurney smoothly sailed down the hall towards the operating room. On it perched Addie with Data. She was smiling and hugging her 67-pound best friend. I swear he was smiling back at her.

Addie and Data snuggling and smiling.

I walked alongside of the gurney in scrubs, trying to look as casually happy as they did. As we passed people in the hall, everyone stared and smiled and waved like she was on a float and she waved back. She loved it.

Addie and Data sailing into the OR together right before surgery.

She was completely relaxed and without a care in the world — it was exactly what we wanted for her pre-surgery. I think I was the only one nervous. The doors of the OR opened. Dr. Schwartz let Data and I stay until she went under anesthesia.

You’d never know she was about to have surgery as she was just so happy to have her dog with her. Dr. Schwartz is behind them.
Addie and Data recovering post surgery.

They used a mask and did nothing invasive with her at all until she was asleep as to avoid upsetting her. She literally held onto Data as she slept, talking to him the whole time. I knew she was safe. They had Data and I leave so they could intubate her and begin the surgery. She never felt a thing.

The last thing she remembered was her best friend Data and her Mommy.

Dr. Dunham and Dr. Schwartz “consult” with Data about the surgery.

After the procedure Addie was recovering with Data by her side and Dr. Schwartz walked in. I hugged him. He reminded me that there truly are good people out there. He helped a girl who once would scream, throw up and be terrified of procedures. Instead she had sailed away to surgery, waving and smiling.

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It’s Saturday, and despite the noise and the crowds, I am going to have to tackle Walmart. We desperately need food, and now that I work all week, I have become a weekend shopper just like everyone else. I try to sneak out of the house and I am just rounding my SUV when the garage door quickly opens. My 5-year-old runs out with her purse slung across her body and says, “I come wit you, Mom!” It’s not a question — it’s more of a statement. I know I am not going to get out of taking her with me.

My daughter, Gabby, has autism, sensory processing disorder, anxiety and panic disorder. A trip to Walmart is extremely hard for her to handle, hence my trying to sneak out. I strap her in, and we are on our way. She is watching “Tangled” on the car television. I lower the volume and say, “It’s going to be really loud and busy today at the store. You are going to have to hang in there with me today, OK, baby?” She does not respond, but I look back in the rearview mirror and see her nodding her sweet head.

We pull in and find a handicapped spot available — a rarity on a Saturday. I excitedly pull my girl out of the car and make sure I have a good grasp on her arm even before her little feet hit the pavement. We make our way through the crowded parking lot and finally get into the store. I was just wiping down the basket when my daughter starts to do a little dance with her feet, grabs her shorts and says a bit to loudly, “I gotta go potty, Mom! Right now!” I abandon our cart and hurry her to the ladies’ restroom.

I come to a stop when I see a lady standing in the doorway trying to see when the restroom is clear. She backs away from the door with a sigh. I look over her head to see an extremely tall, large teenager. He has headphones on and is doing a little dance on his big feet himself. I said to her, “If you guys need to go, please do. We need to use the restroom, too, and I have no problem with you guys using the handicapped bathroom.” She gives me a relieved smile and says, “I always try to clear the bathroom out before bringing him in, but today we just can’t catch a break.” I squeezed her arm and respond, “We’re in the same boat. It’s just easier because she is a girl, and it won’t look strange when I am dragging her to the bathroom when she is 17.” She looks down at my daughter and says, “Autism?” I tell her, “Yes, among other things. You guys come on in. We are on the same team.”

She grabs her son’s hand and drags him to the handicap stall. I can hear her explaining the process to her son, probably something she has done a million times. We are finishing up and washing our hands when a woman bursts into the bathroom. She immediately stops when she sees the large guy washing his hands and looks at our group and gives us the stank-eye. She starts to walk forward but then stops and spins back around. She looks at us and says, “That’s ridiculous. He is old enough to use the men’s restroom.” The other mother looks immediately defeated. I turn to the stranger and, facing her straight on, I say, “Our babies are going to use the restroom with us for the rest of our lives. Do you really think if there was another option that we would be using this restroom? If by any chance there was a family restroom, I can guarantee she would have used it. Instead of just walking through, you had to give us your two cents and make her feel bad.” The lady immediately noticed the young man wearing a Sponge Bob T-shirt and headphones, and she seemed to fully comprehend the reason he is in the ladies bathroom.

I have to give it to her, though. Instead of just going about her business, she turns to the boy’s mother and, offering an apology, says, “I didn’t know.”

Just like that, we are done and walking back toward the baskets. We are each grabbing our carts and our children when she smiles brightly at me and we hug. She pulls back and says, “Thanks for that. I have stopped defending us lately, and it was nice to have someone else be on our team for once.” We chatted for a few minutes and then took our children in opposite directions.

parents walking hand-in-hand with daughter Being a parent to a child with special needs was never part of my life plan. I had big dreams for my little girl, and although those dreams are different now, they are not less. It can be difficult to have a child with special needs. You are fighting day-in and day-out to cater to the needs of a child who is not mentally or physically well. And sometimes, when you are just trying to get a few normal things done, a trip to the bathroom makes you a target. You then have to be an advocate for your child when all you really wanted to do was just buy some groceries and get back home.

Autism is an invisible disability. You cannot look at my child and immediately know she has special needs, which is sometimes a blessing and a curse. If my child was in a wheelchair or had the angelic face of a child with Down syndrome, strangers would immediately be clued into the fact that she requires special care and consideration. So instead of a quick trip to the store that afternoon, we ended up meeting another family on our team. When I say “team,” I mean someone who is fighting battles and advocating as hard as I am. A family striving to live life as well as possible when the deck is stacked against them. That’s our team. Though it’s a team I never sought to join, I have embraced it. I’ve met some of the most inspiring and inspirational people of my life. I have met people who humble me on a daily basis and people who are always willing to jump in and lend a hand or pick me up when I fall.

It’s not where I thought I wanted to be, but it’s amazing to be part of this team.

The Mighty is asking its readers the following: Describe the moment someone changed the way you think about disability and/or disease. If you’d like to participate, please send a blog post to [email protected] Please include a photo for the piece, a photo of yourself and 1-2 sentence bio.

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Over the last three years, I’ve written several posts about fear. They have all been self-centered, as in I fear this and I fear that or I worry about this and I worry about that. My mind does not easily shut off — and my heart, it never rests.

Do you know what the opposite of fear is?

The opposite of fear is reverencerespect or awe for somebody or something.

In terms of autism, I am learning to show reverence — not toward the developmental delay itself, but toward my son. I revere Luca. I hold him in high regard. I have learned to understand and even appreciate the way his mind is wired.

And I am here to tell you: my son is not broken.

No child is broken.

No matter the diagnosis, our children are not broken.

Two good friends of mine have young children who have received different diagnoses, and I have a handful of IG friends who are in the process of receiving a diagnoses for their young children. We meet each other through the celebration of milestones and the little-big joys; but most often, we meet each other with heavy hearts and tears. These tears come from a place of fear, of feeling inadequate and under-qualified to humbly serve these children we’ve been given.

These tears also come from you.

You being the typical person, unable to identify with or understand a diagnosis until it has been handed to you or your child. Please understand the respect with which I am saying this. Until August 3, 2011, I, too, was a typical person, unable to identify with or understand the diagnosis of autism. Nearly three years later, I am not better than you — in no way, shape or form.

I am more aware, more knowledgeable, more accepting.

I simply have new experiences that have challenged and blessed me, and given me a different perspective than what I once had.

And I want you to know that our children, no matter the diagnosis, are blessings. They are gifts. And either way, we don’t deserve them, you and I.

Please don’t look at me with fear and pity in your eyes. 

Please don’t tell me my son has a handicap or a mental illness. He is not ill; he is well.

Please don’t disregard my son, or any other child’s, ability to do anything.

Please, show our children reverence — they are indeed fighting a battle that neither you nor I will ever know.

For so long, I’ve fought for awareness. Autism awareness. But what about acceptance? Why is not OK for so many people to just accept? To sit and soak in all the goodness that seeps into our lives on a daily basis?

Soak it up, friends.

As for fear? I choose to rejoice instead of fear. There is, as for many things, a time and place — a moment of acceptance when it is healthy to realize and deal with fears. But love. And joy. Peace. And hope. These are worth living for. These are worth fighting for. These are the fibers that need to be woven into our children, through us.

This post originally appeared on AllisonTrowbridge.com.

The Mighty is asking its readers the following: Describe the moment someone changed the way you think about disability and/or disease. If you’d like to participate, please send a blog post to [email protected] Please  include a photo for the piece, a photo of yourself and 1-2 sentence bio.

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After my son was diagnosed with autism, I constantly worried about how the world would treat him. Those worries escalated when he was at school interacting with classmates and under the care of others, but with the help of his teachers we found a way to help foster a positive, supportive community for him. It was accomplished by talking to his classmates about autism, and the results have been more effective and encouraging than I ever hoped.

Alex is outgoing, energetic, and has a knack for improv comedyHis big brother is his best friend and his favorite things are Minecraft, sea lions and Lego. He is also autistic, with some social, sensory, attention and impulse control issues. As “Twice-Exceptional,” it seems at times that he is caught in between the typical and special-needs world, so sometimes he struggles to find a sense of belonging and acceptance. As he grew older, those struggles became greater, and we hoped to find a way to help.

Some of you may be wondering why I would want my son’s classmates to know about his autism label. Wouldn’t that complicate things because he would seem more different? I believe honest dialogue about special needs is crucial to acceptance, and that children can be surprisingly open-minded about diversity and uniqueness. If you tell them, “Different is cool,” they will believe you. The trick is to explain those differences in a matter-of-fact and positive way, before they can be affected by the prejudices of the world.

I once read these words:

If you’re the parent of a child with AS and worried about what will happen if other students find out, here’s a thought: they already know. They know they have a classmate who has different and difficult behaviors. But they don’t realize the reasons. And the reasons they imagine are much worse than the facts.”

I felt that they were more likely to be kind if they understood more about him. As the article stated, “… children are never too young to learn that… we need to treat each other with patience, kindness and understanding.”

I was also inspired by a talk given by the Executive Director of our local Autism Society chapter, who shared that it was important to share with classmates about strengths, weaknesses, and how the other children could help.

Taking that into account, Alex and I first shared with his classmates about autism when he was in the first grade. We did it again when he was in second grade, both times in conjunction with his Star Student presentation.

Any time I discuss autism, it is with Alex’s permission, and he is proud to talk about his “special brain.” We wanted to show that autism is just one of the many things that makes Alex interesting (if you want to read the script I used, you can find it here: “The Star: Telling Classmates About Autism”). We made sure to point out that even though Alex was a little bit different, he also was just the same as the other students. Both times I contacted the teacher first to gain permission, and gave her a copy of what would be said so that she could be prepared to answer any questions the students may have later.

There were still the occasional bumpy moments after the autism discussion, but we could feel secure in the knowledge that Alex had allies (and an appreciative audience for his many jokes). I even heard from some supportive, positive parents. It was incredibly encouraging. Certain students went out of their way to help Alex stay organized, calm him when frustrated and even defend him. One dear girl became quite angry when she heard Alex referred to as “crazy in his head.” She protested, “I don’t care what you say, he is my FRIEND! He just has some trouble sometimes with his big feelings.”

young children in classroom

This past school year, the opportunity to share about autism had not yet presented itself. When I finally mentioned it to Alex’s third grade teacher I was pleasantly surprised find out that she had already broached the subject with her students. She said:

“I wanted to be sure that they all understood his different needs. I use my morning meeting time to talk about empathy, our differences, and tolerance. When I told the children that he has autism, I asked them if they knew what that was. Some of the kids that had him in their class last year remembered your lesson about him thinking differently.

“I talked to them about how he is unique (just like all of them) and he uses his brain differently. I told them that he sometimes needs brain breaks to recharge and that he sometimes needs to get out of his seat, walk around, jump, or mumble to himself. I told them that these things all are okay, and that it is just his way of gathering information so that he can do his best.

“This class is so receptive and kind and they really seemed to understand. One of the kids said, ‘Yeah, and he is REALLY smart!’ We all adore him.”

I was deeply moved that she cared enough to broach such a potentially complicated topic, and that she did so to help create a positive, inclusive atmosphere in her classroom. What’s even more inspiring is that her students soon had the opportunity to put her teachings about acceptance into action, and decided to stand up and advocate for Alex.

A substitute teacher was brought into Alex’s classroom at the last minute who had not yet been informed of his IEP accommodations. The collaborative Exceptional Education teacher later shared with me that when she arrived in the class, she noticed the substitute redirecting Alex to stop moving around. Just as the ExEd teacher was about to explain to the substitute that Alex required certain accommodations, the STUDENTS spoke up instead.

She later told me, “It was as if the other children were feeling that they had to advocate for him… They were being very protective of Alex.” The students politely informed the substitute that he was doing what he usually does and works better when he can take breaks and get out of his chair, saying, “Our teacher lets him move around the class.” Then several students pitched in and helped Alex get refocused and caught up on the lesson. According to the ExEd teacher, after that, the rest of the day went much more smoothly and the substitute seemed to have a better understanding of Alex.

Thanks to a caring group of students, a day that could have been potentially frustrating for Alex turned into a great day instead. Alex’s Ex Ed teacher said, “All I could think of was what an amazing group of kids he has in his class! They understand and support him as well as admire his strengths.” I agree wholeheartedly.

Some of those caring students are in the picture in this article (with their parents’ permission), and I feel blessed that they and other incredible children have consistently supported and befriended Alex over the past several years. That is what happens when children are taught to be kind and embrace uniqueness, and they have parents who back up those positive teachings at home. It also helps to have caring teachers who are willing to tackle the tough subjects and practice inclusiveness in their classroom.

I am immensely grateful to all the teachers, students and parents who have given my entire family a sense of community and support! Every day when I send my child to school I can relax, secure in the knowledge that he is in good hands.

This is a follow-up to a previous story at The Mighty, “How I Explained My Son’s Autism Diagnosis to Him.” 

Portions of this story first appeared on the website, “Seriously Not Boring.” You can also find Jennifer Bittner at her Seriously Not Boring Facebook page

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Dorian Poe, 11, loves his stuffed teddy bear, Tikko. Two years ago, Dorian, who has autism, decided he wanted to help teach people around the world about his developmental disorder. He couldn’t travel the world himself, so he decided to send an ambassador: Tikko.

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Dorian and Tikko via the Tikko Travels Facebook page

In 2013, Tikko left home in Burlington, Ontario, and embarked on a worldwide journey. His goal was to visit as many places and meet as many people as he could, promoting autism awareness along the way for people who aren’t able to spread the word themselves. Tikko took with him a letter from Dorian explaining some of the characteristics of autism.

When someone new receives Tikko in the mail, that person’s job becomes telling people in his or her community about autism.

Via the Tikko Travels Facebook page

Within 10 months, Tikko visited 24 countries and met people all over the world who helped him spread Dorian’s message. The movement has continued to grow since its first year — Tikko is still traveling the world today in the name of autism awareness.

He’s seen some impressive sights and world monuments since he first caught the travel bug. He’s also made friends all over the world who, in turn, continue to spread Dorian’s message.

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Tikko in front of the Empire State Building via the Tikko Travels Facebook page
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Tikko at the International Balloon Fiesta in Albuquerque, New Mexico, via the Tikko Travels Facebook page
New friend in Minnesota
Tikko in Minnesota via the Tikko Travels Facebook page
Tikko at an orphanage in Kenya via the Tikko Travels Facebook page

“My personal hope is that as more people learn about autism, accept people with autism and support families with autism, the bigger our community will get,” Christine Poe, Dorian’s mom, told The Mighty in an email.

Mayan Riviera
Tikko on the Mayan Riviera in Mexico via the Tikko Travels Facebook page
Tikko in Ottawa, Canada via the Tikko Travels Facebook page

Tikko has made quite an impression on people. He’s even met a celebrity or two.

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Tikko with Jim Carrey via the Tikko Travels Facebook page

Poe says she’s received feedback from all over the world. “To date I have more than 25 letters from people who live or do not live with autism telling me how much Tikko means to them,” she told The Mighty. “I think the fact Tikko has now travelled all over the globe in just over two years speaks volumes.”

This April, Tikko is celebrating Autism Awareness Month by participating in events around the world. He just completed the Autism Walk in Costa Rica and visited schools in Brampton, Ontario, to help teach children about autism.

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Via the Tikko Travels Facebook page
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Via the Tikko Travels Facebook page

Poe hopes that as Tikko continues to travel the world, more people will feel compelled to make changes that will set up children with autism to succeed in school. “Hopefully, the government will take notice and create a ‘special needs school board’ that will help children with autism have a better chance at success,” she told The Mighty. “When you know something you are doing is helping the children, well, that means everything.

In addition to meeting incredible people around the world, Tikko has also had some awesome adventures. Watch him skydive with Skydive Toronto in the video below. 

To see where Tikko has visited so far, check out this map. For more information about Tikko Travels, visit the project’s website and Facebook page or follow Tikko on Twitter.

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My son, Isaac, lifted the items out of our cart one by one and placed them carefully on the conveyor belt: a bunch of bananas, two dozen eggs and an egg dyeing kit.

When the cashier announced the amount we owed, Isaac took the credit card from my hand, skillfully swiped it through the payment terminal and handed it to me without looking my way. His eyes were transfixed on the receipt that rose and curled from the register on aisle three.

“You have a nice day,” the cashier said, as I folded the receipt and tucked it into my wallet. Isaac didn’t move from the end of the aisle. He was happy watching customers come and go. I lifted our bag of groceries into the cart and touched his arm.

“Wait,” I said. “Wait. I need to go to customer service. You need to wait for me.”

Waiting is not easy for Isaac, and I always wonder what’s going to happen. He’s a wildcard. Will he sprint towards the automatic doors by the credit union, laughing when he sees people entering the store? Or will he stand nearby for a few short minutes and express his displeasure by screaming? Will he stare endlessly at people who are buying groceries? 

I hoped Isaac’s patience would be longer than the line.

As luck would have it, there were a gazillion people in line: a woman wanting to mail a package, a man with a mail order, a woman who needed to buy stamps…

Photo of Hy-Vee store
Every Tuesday I drive Isaac to our local Hy-Vee grocery store whether or not anything’s on my shopping list. He also goes with my husband, Chris, every Saturday for our weekly grocery haul – and he’s there any day in between when we need an item or two.

I’d guess Isaac visits the store five times a week – that’s a grand total of 260 visits for the year. I might be wrong. If so, I’m probably underestimating how often he’s there. If the grocery store were an airport, we’d be frequent flyers – the gold elite status members entitled to all the perks.

The employees at Hy-Vee are nice enough, although I don’t always think they live up to their slogan:  “A helpful smile in every aisle.” My 10-year-old son, Henry, joked the slogan should be changed to “A helpful smile in the bakery once in a while.” Nobody gives us the evil eye, and I’ve never heard a manager or an employee say anything rude, even years ago when Isaac spent considerable time playing with the automatic doors. We’ve always felt welcome in the store, which is one of the reasons we return so often. If Isaac could put a bed in aisle four and convince management to turn off most of the lights by 9:30 p.m., he’d likely move in.

Fortunately, Isaac was content to wait while I stood in line. He stayed about 15 yards from me, his eyes glued to the checkout lanes. I wondered how long he’d stay there without taking off and abandoning our cart. I figured if he ran off, I’d chased after him and we’d go home.

After a few minutes of waiting, an older man wearing a blue plaid shirt walked towards the front of the line. I wasn’t going to let him get in front of me, no matter what he needed. What if my son ran off before I was helped? Didn’t he know it was a gamble for me to be in line in the first place? Didn’t he know by looking at my gray hair and the bags under my eyes that my son has autism? 

Suddenly I found myself at the front of the line explaining what I needed to the woman behind the customer service counter.

“His mind is always thinking, isn’t it? It’s going a million miles an hour,” she said.

I looked at the older gentleman who’d been trying to cut in line. Was that an offhanded comment directed towards him? Was his mind going a million miles an hour, trying to find ways to cut in line? Had she seen him do this before?

Then it hit me. She was talking about Isaac. Of course she had seen us often in the store and knew we were together.

I nodded and pulled out a pile of receipts.

“We just love when he comes in here,” she said. Her words were genuine and so was her smile. 

I couldn’t believe it.

We just love when he comes in here. 

“That’s so nice of you to say,” I stammered, struck silent for a bit. “We’re here a lot. He loves coming in here.”

She nodded. “Is it the bright colors he likes?”

“Oh, it’s the whole experience – the people coming and going, the automatic doors, the loudspeaker, the conveyor belts, the elevator by the bathrooms, the sound when an item is scanned at the registers. It would be his dream to work here, I think,” I said.

She nodded and continued scanning my receipts.

“He has autism,” I added. His diagnosis is something I don’t disclose in public unless someone really needs to know. Because she was so friendly and interested, I wanted to tell her.

She didn’t say anything. She looked at me compassionately, as though she’d known her entire life that a little boy named Isaac had been diagnosed with autism 11 years earlier.

“He’s even looked me in the eye before,” she said proudly. Her statement made me wonder if she, too, knew and loved someone with autism.

She counted the money and placed it in my hand. As I opened my purse, she said, “Thank you. You two have a good day.”

Then she paused and really looked at me. She saw me. She saw Isaac. This is what I saw in her kind eyes and heard in the tone of her voice:

I’ve seen you in this store a million times.

I’ve seen your son walk with you, hand in hand.

I’ve seen him give you a kiss on your cheek. 

I bet you’re tired.

I bet you’re frustrated at times.

I bet some days you feel like the luckiest mama in the world.

I’ve seen your son’s love for the automatic doors. 

I’ve seen your son’s love for the elevator by the bathrooms.

I’ve seen the love you have for your son.

I’ve seen the love your son has for you.

Your son is incredible. 

We just love when he comes in here.

Isaac was still standing in the same location, gazing out into the sea of people and carts and conveyor belts.

“It’s time to go, Isaac,” I said. “Push the cart out.”

As usual, we exited through the wine and spirits department. Even though there’s a checkout there, we’ve never used it. It’s Isaac’s favorite store entrance, though, so we enter and exit there every time. I reminded Isaac to slow down as he put away the cart and bounded through the automatic doors.

The moment I stepped outside, my eyes filled with tears. It caught me off guard. Isaac had taken the van keys and was leading me towards our vehicle. He always remembers exactly where I parked the van. And as we were walking in the parking lot, I wiped away tears.

For a few minutes we sat in the van and listened to his favorite country music station, 98.5 FM. I replayed the scene over and over in my mind.

Isaac’s been to Hy-Vee a few thousand times in his short life. Although employees have been friendly enough, nobody had spoken up until today. We just love when he comes in here.

I heard:

You matter.

Your son matters.

We appreciate differences.

We just love when he comes in here. 

On the drive home I fought back tears, bit my lip and dabbed my eyes with a tissue. Like usual, I drove the long way home – past the library and coffee shop and McDonald’s and up the hill to the car wash  — because the routine makes Isaac happy.

I was happy, too, because a stranger — who didn’t have to say anything — was considerate enough to share her encouraging words with me.

It only took one kind heart and eight words.

We just love when he comes in here. 

This post originally appeared on Turn Up the V.

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