I don't know your name. I don't know what kind of family you live in, if you're rich or poor, if you have one kid or ten. All I know is that one of your kids is really, really loud, and that you are really, really awesome. How do I know that? Well, today as I was sitting in the office of a walk in clinic and trying to appear as unattractive as possible so that no one would talk to me, you and your son walked through the door. Clearly, your son did not want to be at the doctor's office. Fair enough. Neither did I. He also was obviously not a neuro-typical child. I could tell, even from the brief glance I took as I tried to separate myself from the mob of staring sick people eyeing your child, that he struggles with communication and socialization. At maybe nine or ten, he was screaming every syllable he knew how to pronounce to let you know that he did not want to be in that doctor's office, and it should have been explicitly clear to everyone in the room that your son has special needs and requires a special level of respect and attention from the rest of the world. Apparently, however, it wasn't, which is why I'm writing you this letter.
You see, as soon as the door opened up and you dragged your screaming child through the it as gently and patiently as you could, every head in that office turned. "I'm sorry," I heard you say to the nurse, "I tried to calm him down before we got here." But, you see, that's actually a problem. You don't need to apologize. You are a good, normal mom, taking your kid to the doctor. You get to do that without apology. You are not at fault. In reality, the problem, lies in the rest of the waiting room. The rolled eyes. The raised eyebrows. The outraged expressions and whispers as your son got called into the doctor's office ahead of everyone else, because apparently everyone else wanted to sit in a room with your screaming child for an hour. Every gesture, small or large, that amounted to you feeling like you needed to apologize for taking your kid to the doctor, is the problem.
I'm not a parent. I don't, however, imagine that raising a child is easy. I'd also assume that as the number of challenges they encounter rises, your life gets more difficult at a similar rate. And that at 5 pm on a Thursday, there's probably somewhere you'd prefer to be. But instead, you were in that office with me. You were there because you love your kid, because you prioritize their needs ahead of yours, and because you would rather brave a room full of staring, judging, whisperers than watch your kid be sick. I feel like you didn't get enough credit for that today, and you probably never do. All parenting is impressive, but parenting a kid with special needs takes a special kind of awesome and clearly, you are that kind of awesome. Society won't give you the medal you deserve, and I don't know who you are to give you one of my own, so instead you're getting this letter. It's not much, but hopefully you'll at least remember what an incredible human being you are next time you walk into a crowded doctor's office and and feel a little more super-human and a little less like you need to apologize.
Good luck (and you rock),
That sick girl on her laptop in the doctor's office.
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