Originally posted on Ponderethereal A La Aspie

Ethan and I were in the grocery store last night and I was pricing mashed potatos. A lady glided past our cart with a boy, about 8 years old, in tow. The boy was walking a little oddly and he stopped by my cart, stood on his tippy toes and took a deep inhalation of the fresh flowers I had picked up without giving me or Ethan a second glance.

Then he caught up with his mom with that odd gait, who was a few feet ahead examining the stuffing, and he declared “I smelled the flowers, mom.” And then again. “I smelled the flowers, mom.” … and then again. “I smelled the flowers, mom.” - all in a very unemotional but somehow energetic, loud voice with no inflection. I realized immediately what I recognized in him. He was somewhere on the autistic spectrum.

Ethan was watching very carefully. Before he said anything, I gave him The Look and told him quietly that this boy is alot like Emma and we should be respectful and kind. I wanted to run hug the boy’s mom. She looked to be in her 50s with straight blonish gray hair - and so worn down. She patiently nodded at her son and told him they needed milk too. He then declared aloud “I know where the milk is. I’ll show you where the milk is. I know where the milk is.” and he wandered away with mom in tow.

He was so excited about the flowers - and then the milk that Ethan asked if we could go get our milk right then too. His attention was captured by this boy. He wanted to follow this boy. Like the pied piper, this boy’s brightly shining heart could have led my son damn near anywhere in that moment - and admittedly, probably me too.

I thought about them the rest of the night. And now, in retrospect, when I think of that incident, that boy is like a splash of color on my visit to the grocery store. He unabashedly walked right up to my cart, completely unaware of me, and inhaled my flowers. Because they are flowers and that’s what you do with flowers. You inhale them no matter who’s cart they are in. They beg to be inhaled. Even if his inflection didn’t show it, you could just FEEL his excitement at having experienced those flowers.

Or… maybe that’s because somehow, I seem to understand my own kind better than NTs. Maybe his mom was so worn down because she doesn’t see that in him. She only hears the lack of inflection and the inability to regulate his volume or to observe the personal boundaries of the woman with the cart with flowers in it.

It can be tiring to have a child on the spectrum. It can be tiring to BE on the spectrum. But us folks on the spectrum - we are filled with excitement, with exuberance, with ferverent attempts, with desire, with longing - with love and understanding. We are so beautiful. So damned beautiful.