I was browsing at our local Barnes and Noble when I noticed an adorable toddler looking at me from his stroller. He was wearing a San Francisco 49er t-shirt— and a heart shape pendant around his neck. His mother was looking at the book “Your Three Year Old” intently.

“Your purse is pretty!” the little boy said to me cheerfully. “Pink is my favorite color!”

“Uh, oh, Mom…” I joked, and as soon as I said it, I wished I could suck the words right back. Me– of all people. After all the comments I had endured.

“Oh, I know,” laughed the young mother nervously, “I think he’s going through some kind of stage.” She looked back down at her book, clearly hurt by my thoughtless comment.

“Well, he looks like a winner to me,” I said as I walked away. I would only dig myself deeper if I said anything else like “of course it’s just a stage” or “it’s just fine even if it’s not just a stage.”

—

I thought about the little boys mother a lot that day, and hoped that the line I had thrown her hadn’t ruined her day.

I remembered the time that I was at the grocery store with Matthew when he was about 8 years old. He ripped open a bag of Skittles impulsively as I stood at check out and the multi-colored pieces went everywhere. As I scrambled to pick them up, Matthew bolted for the exit, laughing crazily. I scooped him up just as he rammed into a stern looking woman in her sixties.

“I am so sorry,” I said as she shook her head disapprovingly.

“Who’s in control here?” she mumbled loudly as I pushed my cart out the door.

And then I rushed to my minivan with Matthew, fell in and cried, my black lab Katie looking on sympathetically. I was  as much hurt as I was angry, and was tempted to ambush the woman as she left the grocery store so that I could explain Matthew’s behavior. This, of course, was back when so few people knew about autism, and I myself had a hard time putting it into words. So I let it go.

“People are only mean because they don’t understand,” said my father later that day.

“You never know,” he joked “maybe the woman’s cat bit her today, and she was in a bad mood and took it out on you. Or maybe she stubbed her toe…”

Or maybe she just made a thoughtless remark like mine. I’ll never know.

But if I ever run into the young mother from the bookstore again, and she looks like she needs a hug, I’ll give her one.

Laura

Laura Shumaker is the author of A REGULAR GUY: GROWING UP WITH AUTISM

and a contributor to A CUP OF COMFORT FOR PARENTS OF CHILDREN WITH SPECIAL NEEDS.

She writes each Friday for 5 MINUTES FOR SPECIAL NEEDS.