Table Talk
I HUSTLE MY fifteen-year-old autistic son out of bed, into his clothes and through his breakfast. His bus will arrive soon and I want him to be ready. The driver has already scolded me for making her wait. I hold his coat and he slides his arms through the sleeves. Then he zips it up to his chin. I lower the zipper a tad so it won’t scratch his skin. He zips it back up and I chide myself for thinking I have the power to alter this behavior. I’ve taught Matthew to place two folding chairs right at the inside of the front door so that we can see the bus the instant it arrives. He thwacks one against the other as he struggles to open them. Flopping down, he presses his nose to the glass window of the door, adding a new smudge to the many already there.
Early March, 6:45 A.M., and the sun still hasn’t risen. Pointing his index finger to the sky, Matthew grunts, “Ehhhhh.”
Non-verbal, Matthew communicates using hand signals, utterances, and an iPad. Sometimes I understand him and sometimes I don’t. When I don’t, he’s been known to bang his iPad against the wall,
