Tales from an AutiMom: Let’s All Coexist

Special Blog Series: Tales from an AutiMom

With over a decade of parenting on the Autism Spectrum under her belt, Joy Blackburn has learned a thing or two about finding what works for her children. We’re pleased to feature Joy’s writing in our blog series, “Tales from an AutiMom.” You can find these stories and more in her upcoming book, Wait! My Seat Belt is Broken! (A mom boards the autism bus and hangs on.) 

Joy is the CEO of Ad Infinitum Communications and mother of Jack, an amazing young man with autism. Jack’s sudden and dramatic path to language at the age of nine was told in the 2010 documentary, “Jack and the Video Camera.” Joy is on The Arc Pikes Peak Region’s Board of Directors.

What is an AutiMom?

I’m a fellow mom of a child with autism, an AutiMom, and I know what you’re going through. Between physical therapy, speech therapy, occupational therapy, feeding therapy and behavioral therapy, autism discussion group-monitoring, medical and homeopathic specialists, IEP meetings and meal planning (got one or more kids on a specialized diet? Woo-hoo! Bonus!), plus housework, homework, floor time and government forms. . . it can be hard to get to work on time! Ha-ha-ha, sigh.

This is Year Twelve for me, and I’ll confess I’ve gone a little ditzy. I do stuff like put the phone down to look for a pencil and paper, then pick up a few toys and whatnot as I move from room to room. I might notice that Jack’s bed isn’t made, so I’ll quickly do that. Ew, and the fish tank needs cleaning. At every turn, there are dozens of undone tasks in my path, so I just keep powering forward. Eventually, the caller realizes I’ve forgotten all about him… Grab a margarita and read more about being an AutiMom here, in AutiMoms Unite! And while you’re at it, check out the first post in this special series below!

Let’s All Coexist

People love to use car bumpers to inform us about their hobbies, children, pet peeves and miscellaneous other obsessions while we patiently wait for them to notice the light has turned green. It makes them happy, but honestly. Why should we bother learning about strangers locked away in a metal box? We’ll probably never meet them, so why groom us with this knowledge? Are they hoping we’ll pull up beside them, roll down our windows and say, “Excuse me, but could you tell me a little bit more about why we should ‘Get the #@$$ out of the Middle East?’”

My take on it is this: communication should have a shared purpose. A bumper sticker that says, “Student Driver at the Wheel” is useful to me. It changes the way I interact with your car. I’ll be more patient. I won’t get irked if your turn signal stays on for six blocks. I’ll give you a wide berth as I pass. These small courtesies I extend to you will, in turn, make it easier for you to practice driving.

One snowy Saturday when Jack was 6, I took him to Chuck E. Cheese’s. The place was jammed. I never sat down or played a game with his sister, but I still had a hard time keeping Jack in my sights. The crowds kept cutting us off and pushing him beyond my reach. Thus separated, I watched helplessly as one kid stole a string of tickets from him. Another walked away with his token cup – It looked like an accident, but it didn’t matter since I couldn’t get to him to stop it. More importantly, I saw several parents yell at Jack – really get into his face, pointing, gesturing, and ganging up on him with their kids. I saw them push Jack back, pull him aside by the arm, and edge him out at games. In response, I went foam-at-the-mouth rabid on some of these parents, which probably scared Jack as much as the initial confrontations.

Light Bulb!
Jack needed a “Student Driver” bumper sticker.

As bad as these parents had been with Jack, I didn’t believe they were flat-out cruel. If they’d known Jack was disabled, I was sure they’d have treated him differently.

On the way home, we stopped at Target where I bought a white T-shirt and a package of iron-on printer paper. The shirt I created carried a bold, big-lettered message on both the front and the back. It said:

I’m Autistic
and functionally
Non-Verbal.
If you need help,
ask for
Jack’s Mom.

Below that, I put my cell phone number, in case he got away from me in a large or crowded place. I used no distracting clip art, no fancy fonts, no borders. This was not fashion. It was a billboard.

If there was one thing I did above all else to help my son, this was it. The world utterly changed for Jack. No longer did strangers randomly swoop in to scream at him. People saw the shirt before they even saw Jack’s face, and this let them be ready for whatever interaction was coming. Jack was given space, deference, and the benefit of the doubt, so he could move through a crowd with confidence. People stopped staring or laughing whenever he did something odd, and they stopped complaining when he took too long. Instead, they would sidle up to me and quietly rave about his shirt.

And I’ll tell you! Before the shirt, whenever someone who had been hassling or lecturing Jack found out he was disabled, they were universally mortified.

U-N-I-V-E-R-S-A-L-L-Y M-O-R-T-I-F-I-E-D ! ! !

It ruined their day every bit as much as it ruined Jack’s. Nobody wants to be the bad guy in our stories. A bumper sticker T-shirt gives them the chance to be the good guys they honestly want to be.