To the Angry Woman at the Park Who Scolded My Nonverbal Son
Dear mother in the park,
I still think of you occasionally. Our interaction has become something of a turning point for me. I have no doubt you have long since forgotten about me. But I wish to thank you. In a time of uncertainty, you forced me to find a strength I wasn’t sure I had. It shaped me into a better parent and added “advocate” to my repertoire.
The day I met you may not have been your finest hour. I think you must have been having a bad day. Maybe you had never encountered a child with an invisible disability. And I know ignorance can breed discrimination.
There must have been a reason for your behavior. I refuse to be a person who just labels someone inherently “bad.” It is too simple. Human beings exist within the greys.
My eldest son had only recently turned 2. My second son, then a newborn, was sleeping in the stroller. I was juggling three hourly feeds (and all those snacks in between) with a 2-year-old who was self-harming, an extensive autism diagnosis process and a chronic illness of my own. No one was to know that. I was just another exhausted mother at the playground. I was trying to work off the famous 2-year-old energy before dinnertime, looking forward to a couple hours of precious sleep before the night feeds began. Our sons tussled on the slide, both vying for the first turn. We were both on hand. Neither was hurt or bothered. It could have ended there. To be honest, I think it should have. But I wouldn’t remember you if it had.
Your reaction surprised me.
You turned around, addressed my son directly and scolded him. Now, let’s ignore that this was a result of normal toddler behavior and no one was hurt. In fact, your son was already climbing up for the next turn on the slide. Nor am I against other parents telling my sons to knock off bad behavior if it is done right. It takes a village to raise a child, doesn’t it?
This was not done right.
You demanded my son apologize.
When I explained my son couldn’t say sorry because he was completely nonverbal, you responded with a look of disbelief. You attempted to get in his face, requesting he look at you when you were talking to him. It’s not just that I knew he couldn’t do what you asked, I also knew he didn’t have to. It bought out the tiger mother inside of me. You had crossed a line. I’m sure my face darkened.
I got between you and my anxious 2-year-old who was on the brink of a full meltdown, and told you to back the hell off. You were angry. I was angry. This had gotten out of hand very quickly. I picked up my gorgeous little boy and wrapped my arms around him. As he nuzzled into my shoulder, whimpering and overwhelmed, I took a cheap shot. I told you I hoped you never had a child with special needs — you weren’t cut out for it. It’s not something I’m proud of. It was said in the heat of the moment, in anger and protection. Who knows what sort of day you had? Who knows what stressors you were facing behind that face lacking compassion? But I wasn’t feeling particularly empathetic at the time.
It is the next moments that I am proud of. As I walked away, I made a decision. I was not going to give in to the impulse to slink away. My little boy was not going to get his playtime cut short. He had just as much right to be there as any other child. Tears were filling my eyes when another mom showed kindness by giving up the prized swing. As I pushed my son he calmed down, enjoying the movement. You left shortly after.
It wasn’t anyone’s best moment, but it had a lasting effect on me. Ever since, I have been determined that my son’s right to be present, to enjoy and to participate should be enacted. A medical diagnosis did not diminish him as human being. I decided then I would move heaven and Earth to protect those rights. His light would never be diminished by a label.
A year and a half later, I want to thank you. Your lack of compassion forced me to discover my inner advocate. My son is better off for it.
Follow this journey on Rachelle’s blog.
The Mighty is asking the following: Describe a moment you were met with extreme negativity or adversity related to your disability and/or disease (or a loved one’s) and why you were proud of your response — or how you wish you could’ve responded. 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. Check out our Submit a Story page for more about our submission guidelines.