This is Bad

“This is bad.”

My five-year-old son was trying to say these words.  If Bobby had been a neurotypical little boy he could have said them easily. 

Instead, what came out of his mouth was more like, “Thisssss baaaaa.”  He said it over and over, with a jagged, rising inflection that signalled a full-blown autistic meltdown was minutes away.  

And I couldn’t handle one more today.  Not here at the mall, not in front of all these people.  I had to stop him before whatever it was that was causing his nerve endings to twang at an unbearable frequency sent him off the deep end, turning him from a quirky but quiet little boy to an out-of-control, screaming maniac. 

Deep breath.  I could do this.  Sinking to a squat, I put my hands on Bobby’s thin shoulders.  He could tolerate firm, deliberate touch; it was feathery, brushing contact that made him frantic.

“Bobby, do your shoes pinch?”  This had been yesterday’s complaint.

“Nuhhhh.  Thisssss baaaaa, thisssss baaaaa!”

Not the shoes.  Maybe a scratchy collar or an irritating tag.

“Bobby, is it your shirt? Your pants?  Your socks?”

I was getting a “nuhhhh” for every question I asked.  Each one was louder and shriller.  People in the mall stared as Bobby’s voice continued to rise. His right arm began to spasm in a flicking action.

Inevitably, one of his random slaps caught me square across the face.  I pinioned both of his arms to his sides in as gentle a manner as I could – no easy feat with Bobby wriggling like an infuriated eel.  I heard a woman with kids tell them to hurry along and not look at the bad boy.  I knew she thought I was a bad mother, too. 

“Bobby, I am going to take you outside,” I said.  “Do you understand?”

“Yusss,” he managed to say.  His eyes were rolling wildly in his head.  His feet were starting to tap in an involuntary caper. 

“Sweetie, you have to walk.  Hold my hand.  We’ll go out the door, ok?”

Bobby was sobbing.  The inner hell that he was experiencing was excruciating and he cried like a trapped raccoon, not a child.  Every passer-by was staring at us in a disapproving way.  Nobody asked if we needed help. 

I dragged Bobby to the exit, avoiding the windmilling of his renegade hand.  He kept howling in a ragged way, eyes shut but blobby tears rolling down his anguished face, propelled by grief that no five-year-old should ever feel.  

We made it out the door, onto the sidewalk.  It was a grey, fall day.  The air wasn’t particularly fresh, but it had an immediate, restorative effect on Bobby.  His arm stopped lashing out and his feet stopped doing their uncontrolled dance.  I handed him a tissue.

“Oh, Bobby,” I said.  “I wish I knew what was bothering you.”

His gaunt little face, streaked with tears and snot, was solemn.

“Dunno,” he said.  “But, wasssss baaaaaa.”