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| Small ride. Big kid. |
I hate the loud noises, the screaming, squirming hordes of children who aren't my own so I can't yell at them, the exorbitant amount of money I have to pay for the bad pizza, and tokens used to play games where kids earn one ticket at a time in order to trade them in for the one and only thing they must have and it's 15,000 tickets and I can buy it at Walmart for $3.
So, yeah, I hate Chuck E. Cheese.
Hate. It.
But, you know us parents will do a lot of things we don't like for our kids. A couple of months ago, Gideon began asking about Chuck E.-freaking-Cheese. Gideon, if you didn't know, is autistic and has very limited language. When he does ask for something, we try really hard to make it happen. And so, I promised him for his birthday in August, we could go to Chuck E. Cheese.
Today, while we waited for storms to blow through from Hurricane Harvey, we packed up the four kids and headed out. Since most people with sense stayed home today, the restaurant wasn't too crowded and that worked to our advantage.
About fifteen minutes after we came, Mr. Cheese himself made his rounds. Gideon was the first to spot him and rushed over.
Chuck held his hand out.
Gideon shrieked in excitement and bounced on the balls of his feet. He carefully, cautiously reached out a hand and brush Chuck's paw (do rats have paws? Or is he a mouse?).
Chuck waved.
Gideon jumped and giggled.
I held up my phone. "Can I just get a picture?"
Tugging on Gideon's hand, I tried to situate him closer to the Great Furry One. But, he was nervous and it was hard to wrangle him. I smiled at Chuck. "Sorry about this. He has autism. This will just take a minute."
Mr. Cheese looked at me with his beady black eyes, shrugged, and walked off, leaving Gideon upset and me fuming.
No, my mommy-heart wanted to yell. No, you don't get to dismiss him like that. He just wanted you to take thirty seconds out of your stupid rat (mouse?) life and show him a little kindness.
Instead, I sighed and directed Gideon to the play area.
The rest of the three hours we spent there (yes, I deserve the biggest Mommy Medal you can find) frustrated me. Gideon is eight now, and a very big boy, over four and a half feet tall, and, shall we say, built like an NFL linebacker.
But he's autistic and has developmental delays. He wants to ride the rides made for the tiny little guys and doesn't understand why he can't. He wants to show his excitement by jumping up and down and flapping his hands, by making funny noises, and laughing too loud.
And with that come the looks.
Most of them were sly glances as we passed, from people trying not to stare. Maybe a whispered comment to a friend about that "weird kid who's too big to ride that ride." See, Gideon is past the "Isn't he cute?" stage of a kid with disabilities, the one that makes people smile and fawn all of them. Now, it's more of an "Um, what's wrong with that kid?" stare, a wide berth around us, and hastily-avoided eye contact.
It's moments like that, days like these, that get to me the most. It's when I realize that Gideon has a hard road to walk. It's a road he may never fully grasp. He may never understand to be embarrassed when he does something silly or to be upset when he's been wronged. That's where I come in--that's my job as his mom. I take an extra dose of anger and frustration because he can't. And I take an extra dose of hurt and sadness because he doesn't.
Sometimes, it hits me that I have a hard road to walk too.
There was this one moment though.
When Gideon had ridden the same ride seventeen times in a row and we were out of tokens, we passed by a man and his little girl. The man looked at Gideon, and then met my gaze and nodded.
I blinked at him in surprise.
He smiled at me. Smiled, y'all! He smiled like a guy who knew Gideon was different and it didn't matter all that much. He smiled like a guy who would pose for a picture with a kid just to make his day. He smiled and I remembered not everyone in the world is afraid or dismissive of a person with a disability.
A smile, such a simple, small common action, but, when done correctly, it's everything that matters.
He smiled and I remembered not everyone in this world is a jerk.
(Eh-hem, yes, Chuck E. Cheese, I'm looking at you.)
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