Member-only story
My Son Doesn’t Need Your Blessing
During a road trip through the South, my son’s cognitive and behavioral issues drew a specific kind of judgment
Two summers ago, my husband and I drove our son, J, the 2,790 miles from New York City to Los Angeles so he could receive a special therapy unavailable where we live. Flying would have been faster, but our son has significant cognitive and behavioral issues, including screaming meltdowns and incontinence, that make flying a risky proposition.
Also, J is no longer a child, which means no more of the extra margin that people are more likely to afford to children. At 19, he is taller than I. A few scattered mustache hairs poke out like thorns from his otherwise smooth upper lip. His voice has dropped two registers without my ever noticing it (no cracks in between). His long, wide feet look like cartoon flippers. When I saw a story about a flight that was diverted so an autistic teen who was melting down could be removed from the plane, I knew we’d have to drive.
Physically, our son looks exceedingly typical, if not handsome. Thus, we’ve had a lifetime of dealing with comments like, “Why can’t you control your kid?” and “He’s too old to be crying/ tantrumming/ wetting his pants.” When he shouts or laughs maniacally, I brace for the stares.
