Dodging the Hornet’s Nest
In the car, on the way to school a few months back, Griffin dropped this bomb on me:
I panicked. My mind raced as it seemed the day I had been dreading for the past 14 years had arrived. I, apparently, was going to have THE conversation with my autistic son in the 8 and half minutes it would take us until we would be pulling into the school parking lot. Considering how ill-prepared we both were for this conversation, I foresaw an awkward meeting with the school principal and possibly local law enforcement in my very near future.
Of course I couldn’t be certain. After all, Griffin’s language, due to his disorder, is one part formal-contraction-free English, one part adorable caveman, and all marbles-in-the-mouth ambiguity. So I did what any of you would do under the circumstances. I stalled with a,
“What did you say Griff?”
Undeterred, the boy replied,
“Do babies get born in the emergency room?”
Whew. False alarm.
It was just another question in a long line of questions about his current obsession – Why People Go to the Emergency Room and How Long Do They Stay There. Just to be safe, I wiped the sweat from my brow (and ample jowls) and embarked on a filler-buster conversation about maternity wards, nurseries, HMOs, deductibles and co-pays until he bounced out of the car at school and began his daily quest for breakfast burritos.
Another stellar day of parenting by Big Daddy.