My Autistic Son Isn’t a Danger To Kids At McDonald's
What I want you to know about him
My son and I are at McDonald’s. He is five years old, and I consider making up a phony excuse to tell him why we have to leave because the shrieks are more ear-piercing than usual. But he follows a boy into an opening in the play structure, and I ignore the voice telling me, this is not a good day to come to McDonald’s.
I realize the screams and squeals might tip his senses overboard, and I will be the one most responsible for whatever happens because I know my son has a hard time controlling his body in loud, highly stimulating environments.
Five. Ten. Fifteen minutes pass.
I wince with every scream as if they’re coming from a Stephen King movie. And then I hear it. Above my head, coming from inside a yellow octagon, a mournful wail echoes throughout the room. I burrow my six-foot-three-inch body like an oversized gopher through the tunnels to the octagon, knowing that my son is involved.
I reach the opening of the octagon. A mom has beaten me there. She is cradling her daughter in her arms. The blond-haired girl is three, maybe four years old. She looks like a baby bird with a damaged wing, and it feels like I’ve arrived at a crime scene before the police show up.
